The morning is cold, a crisp cold. The sky is mostly gray with a slight tinge of blue. Today will be in the high 30’s so I’m glad for no wind. I have to go to the dump, the cold, always windy, Russian steppes dump.

When I was a kid, after Thanksgiving, when December rolled around, it was time to start thinking about Christmas. I’d spend hours going through the Sears catalog trying to figure out what I wanted. My choices changed every time I looked. I’d circle the gifts, always on the toy pages. I’d use a pencil and put my initials next to my choice. When I changed my mind, and I always changed my mind this early, I’d erase the circle. I never looked through the clothes pages. Christmas was not for clothes.

I remember the threat of Santa Claus. That threat took the place of, “I’m going to tell your father when he gets home.” My father just yelled. Santa put you on the naughty list and gave you coal. My mother was the best threat giver. She had us all scared that we’d find nothing under the tree. The closer we got to Christmas the better we were. The advantage went to my mother.

I’d watch my father when he’d decorate the bushes outside the house. The light bulbs were colored and large. Nobody used white lights back then, not even in windows. I remember the year of orange bulbs in the front windows, one in each side window and a five bulb candolier in the picture window. The candles were white plastic with fake drippings and were so light they had to be taped to the windowsill or they’d fall to the floor.

I’m amazed at the number of houses already decorated for Christmas. I’ll do mine when we get a warmish day. My neighbor’s house was lit up last night for the first time. He has white light wreaths in every front window. I drive slower this time of year so I can see all the lights, especially the lights shining through windows from the Christmas trees inside.