Welcome to a special episode of Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which Mary Much Happens.
You feel good and then you fall asleep.
I'm Kathryn Nikolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear and nothing much happens.
Audio Engineering is by Bob Widdersheim.
Before we dig in and cozy down, let me remind you that all our lovely NMH merch, our weighted pillow and autographed books, are available at the link in our notes or at NothingMuchHappens .com.
Tonight we are bringing you something special.
An extra long episode of our own holiday favorite staff picks.
Perfect to play while you sit by the tree, snuggle into your favorite ugly sweater, or fall asleep with a belly full of gingerbread.
I asked each team member to give me their favorite December episode of the show.
Is our group chat called Nothing Much Staffens?
It is. I thought as I told you a bit about what to expect tonight, I could also tell you a little about the lovely people who helped me bring these stories to you.
First tonight we have Bob's pick, which is Holiday at Weather Vain Farm.
And I think that is proof that Bob secretly likes all the puns, because that story is full of them.
Bob is, as you have heard me say many times, our audio engineer, which means he takes care of every element of how this show sounds.
Bob and I met through a mutual friend years ago.
He was the first person I turned to when I was ready to make my little idea of bedtime stories for grown -ups into a reality.
He's been there for me, and for you, for every single episode of this show.
He keeps me grounded and focused, and his meme game is top tier.
He sleeps very well and lives very happily in Ypsilanti, Michigan, with his wife Barbara and an ever fluctuating number of humans and animals.
Next, we have Lindsay's pick, which is Mistletoe and Marmalade.
A delightful story featuring our favorite animals in the village and just a bit of romance.
Now Lindsay takes care of our website, and if you need help with that yourself, I've got a link to her business in our notes.
She is fantastic at taking a disjointed voice memo from me, where I'm not even sure what I'm asking for, and turning it into the absolutely charming sight we now have.
She and her daughter Briar listen together most nights, and I hope that the memories they're making now, spending that quiet time together, will last a long time.
Next comes Nate's pick.
Nate is my manager, and in most senses, my business partner.
He listens to all my wild dreaming, all my silly ideas, and then helps me make them actually happen.
He cares so much about what we are making here, not just that we are helping folks to sleep, but that we are giving comfort and community when many need it most.
Nate picked model trains and make -believe, a sweet story about a visit to an exhibit in downtown on a chilly night.
Another very valuable member of team NMH is Kaylee.
She helps us with marketing and design.
She designed all of our merchandise and remade our logos this year, among many other projects.
She has a beautiful vision for all the work that I do, and she helps me see it.
She picked The Innkeeper's Holiday, which is basically me wanting to write a White Christmas episode.
It's a story about the inn keeper and chef getting ready for the inn to bustle with gas and merriment.
I'll slip my own pick in here, which is the tree farm.
It's a story about an orphan tree finding its way home for the holidays, and did you catch the mention of it this year in Grey Cat and Grimoire?
Now, I saved Megan's pick for last, because her favorite is Game Night, which I also really love, and it takes place latest in the month.
It captures a moment near New Year's and is full of friends and food and fun.
Megan is in charge of community care at NMH.
I sometimes call her our fairy pod mother.
She moderates all our social media pages.
She is the kind, loving person answering your emails in DMs.
She can help you with the big feelings that sometimes come up, and with as much care, also tech support.
She does it all. So, these are the people who work so hard to make sure you are tucked in with love and thoughtfulness each night, and I feel very lucky to work with them.
They all support me and help to make what I do more effective and dreamy.
So, from all of us, I had nothing much happens.
We wish you a wonderful holiday season and a long winter's nap.
And if you've made it this far, you probably don't need me to say that I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
But I just wouldn't feel right if I didn't.
So fluff your pillow.
I'm imagining you with a candle in a Dickensian holder at your bedside.
Blow it out. You won't be visited by three spirits tonight, though we do hope you wake feeling like a brand new happy person tomorrow.
Let's all take a deep breath in and out.
Once more, breathe in.
And sigh it out. Good.
Holiday at Weathervane Farm.
Just hanging the lights would take a day.
But I didn't mind at all.
It was a special time of year.
One that I looked forward to through the rainy days of spring.
The summer heat and especially as the leaves dried and fell.
On the drive up the road at night when the farm came into sight and you saw the trees wrapped in white lights.
The branches suddenly picked out against the dark sky.
The roofline of the house and barn and even the weathervane all glowing.
Well, it made a day of work well worth it.
And besides the beauty, it was a way to guide visitors.
Our farm relied on the community to help us keep our rescued pigs and goats and donkeys in hay and feed for the winter.
So a few years ago, we hatched an idea to bring them all together.
It involved lots of twinkle lights, hot cocoa and cider, and Santa hats with holes cut out for long floppy ears.
After all, who wouldn't want to drive out to the country on a snowy December evening and be wished seasons bleedings by all the goats?
A volunteer knitted giant Christmas sweaters for the donkeys.
Our oldest and sweetest dog, a slow moving pug who couldn't see too well played Santa paws, laying on the cushioned seat of a small sled in the barn, where people could tell him what they wanted for Christmas and get their pictures taken.
He often snoozed through the whole thing.
We strung mistletoe above the pigs enclosure.
And while no one had actually gone in for a kiss, they did get quite a lot of belly rubs and treats.
We found big yoga balls painted like ornaments that the goats chased and tried to jump on.
Mostly, it was an excuse to bring people close to our animals and let them be reminded of how beautiful they were, how much they enjoyed their lives here, where they would never be in danger, where they would only know love.
And that being a part of giving that safety and love was an excellent way to celebrate the season.
Over the years, we'd found a few ways to make the trip out to the country even more worthwhile.
A Christmas tree farm down the road began donating wreaths and garlands.
And now it was a regular part of the tradition for lots of people to get their front door wreath from Weathervane Farm.
We had urns of hot cocoa and trays of donuts and Christmas cookies set up around heaters on the front porch of the farmhouse.
And the tractor hitched to a wagon lined with hay bales to take folks out for rides through the snowy fields.
So today, as I took boxes of lights and decorations out to the yard, I was already full of holiday spirit.
I watched the ducks waddling off to the pond, which hadn't frozen over yet, to spend the day sunbathing on the banks.
They called to each other as they went.
And I sang out, HONK THE HAIR OLD ANGELS SING!
I cracked me up. I looked down at the lights in my hands.
I knew there was a system for this.
Where to start and the best way to proceed.
Without getting the cords all tangled up.
But I never remembered.
It was always a process of trial and error.
So I picked an outlet, plugged in a set of lights, and started to string them up.
As I made my way around the back side of the barn, I looked out at the back pasture.
We'd had a new addition to Weathervane a while back.
Well, two additions, actually.
Our first cow, she'd come at the end of the summer.
In need of some medical care and skittish at first.
We'd soon learned she was pregnant.
And one early morning, a few weeks passed, we'd found her with a beautiful, light brown, fuzzy calf laying in the straw.
The vet had pronounced them both in good health and him in need of a name.
I couldn't help myself.
With his tan, blonde fur and round belly, he was immediately dubbed Winnie the Moo.
Winnie and his mom were chewing in the pasture.
And I stepped one foot up onto the fence rail and leaned in to coo with them.
Mom lifted her head to look at me, still unsure about all of us.
I would take her a while to trust and that was fine.
Winnie, never having known anything but safety, came right up to the fence, mom hurrying behind him to keep watch.
And she let me reach out and give him a scratch along his neck.
On the nights we had visitors, we'd take them to the smaller barn out back where they could bed down in the straw and have a bit of privacy.
Maybe some Christmas they would want to don their reindeer antlers and join in the fun, but not this year.
I went back to my work, adding more lights and big candy canes the size of Shepherd's hooks that stuck into the ground.
We'd had a bit of snow the week before, but it had melted away within a day or two.
And I was hoping for more before the festivities began.
It certainly was getting colder.
I was keeping warm with my work, but I noticed the ducks coming back early from their excursion to nestle in at the barn.
I heard a horn blowing down the long driveway and checked that all the gates were closed and walked down the drive to wave at a big truck I recognized.
The wreaths were here, the yards and yards of garland, made from Easter white pine with its long soft needles.
And I noticed among all the greenery, a tree bundled in twine stuck in with the rest.
I could hear one of our donkeys braying in the yard, excited by a visitor.
And I called out as they climbed from the truck, meal -tied greetings.
I got one of them to chuckle.
The other just shook his head and said, that's it.
I'm taking your present back.
What present? What did you bring me?
And they hauled the huge Christmas tree out of the open bed and stood it up.
It must have been 20 feet tall.
I grinned at them, and they grinned back.
Where should we put it?
I laughed. Somewhere the goats won't knock it over, he said with a sigh.
Mistletoe and marmalade.
It was our first Christmas together.
Well, we'd had Christmases as friends, plenty of them.
And a Christmas in the early days of falling in love.
But this was our first Christmas as a married couple, as a blended family.
There was me, my ginger cat marmalade, my scruffy brown dog crumb, and now my love and his sleepy, giant greyhound birdie.
In some ways, it felt like we'd been together for ages, and in others, it all felt brand new.
I'd known how he took his coffee, no milk, a spoonful of sugar.
And I knew his taste in music and the story behind the old, green corduroy jacket he'd had since college.
But I was completely surprised by his passion for tabletop RPGs and near -encyclopedic knowledge of the history and flavor profiles of many, many varieties of chilies.
I think I had surprised him too.
When I'd replaced the sconces in the bedroom with some vintage ones I'd rebuilt and rewired, he'd joyfully flick the switch off and on several times, admitting that this was well above his skill set and that it seemed like magic to him.
I had a feeling that this was one of the joys of loving someone for a long time, realizing that there was always more to learn about them.
The animals had also learned more.
For example, that birdie liked to graze and didn't usually eat his breakfast all at once.
Once Crumb realized there was a second breakfast available, just one bowl over, he'd scarf his own and then dive into birdies.
This had led to a somewhat complicated morning routine, involving shooing Crumb out into the yard as soon as he'd finished his last kibble and convincing Bird to go on and clean his plate.
But most days we managed it.
Marmalade, as usual, took it all in stride.
She had priorities.
She needed to lay on her perch and watch the birds at the theater.
She needed several naps to bathe her paws and face and have some uninterrupted one -on -one time with me.
And whether there was one dog chasing his tail or two while she did it, she didn't much care.
I knew some of her disaffected nature was put on.
She liked to appear a bit above her brothers, but I'd also seen her bathe both of their faces when they'd come back from their check -ups at the vet.
And on movie night, her favorite spot was right between them, her chin resting on Bird's back and her back paw stretched out to touch Crumb's belly.
We were a happy little pack heading into the holidays, and decorating had been a good deal of fun for all of us.
I wasn't a very organized person, so when it came time to gather together all the bulbs and strands of light and little houses for the Christmas Village, we'd had to troop up to the attic, down into the basement, root through the garage, and dig under the bed.
But eventually, we found nearly everything.
Our tree went up in the living room, right in front of the big picture window, where it could be seen from the street.
There was a moment of contention while we debated white lights versus colored lights.
But luckily, my sweetheart realized I'd made a very convincing argument, and my pick were strung up.
As we hung up bulbs and ornaments, some from my collection and some from his, we told the stories of them.
Here was the bulb my mom had been gifted, the year I was born, with the date still etched on the side, and the crack that had been carefully glued after I'd pulled the tree down when I was three.
Here was the ornament made of popsicle sticks and cotton balls, heat glued together in kindergarten, unrecognizable as any particular thing, but cherished just the same.
As we decorated, the animals watched a bit nervously from their beds.
Boxes were often regarded with suspicion by all of them.
Things were either coming in or going out, and they weren't sure they approved of either.
Finally, marmalade, bravest of the three, tiptoed up to the tree and reached a paw out toward a green glass bulb.
I could see her curious eyes reflected in the surface, and whether she broke the bulb or not, I thought I was likely to remember this moment for years to come.
Her wonder at it, the glow of the tree lights, through the fur of her ears.
She batted it experimentally, and I squatted down beside her and replaced it with a felted mouse on skis.
She reached out again, batting at it, and watching the branch bounce as it was buffeted.
I gave up and just unhooked the mouse and tossed it for her.
She caught it and kicked it under the couch, where she could just barely fit her hind legs and tail sticking out as she wrestled with her new toy.
We decided to move anything breakable up to the higher branches.
Crumb came closer to sniff at the boxes and tilt his head as I wound the key on the bottom of a tiptoe, and I opened it up in front of him.
A tinny version of the Christmas song played as he watched the suspended snowflakes slowly drift down over a little house not so different from our own.
I hummed along, reached out to scratch under his chin, to pups from one to ninety -two, though it's been said many times, many ways, meowee Christmas to you.
I heard a chuckle from the other room and wondered if my appreciation for bad puns had come as a surprise, like my electrical handyman skills had.
I heard him bustling around in the kitchen, a drawer opening, and wondered if he was starting dinner.
I set the snow globe down in front of Crumb, who got down on his belly and pressed his nose to the glass, still watching the snowfall.
Bluebird stood and stretched beside the couch, and I called him over.
He sat down beside me, and I put my arm around him, and we looked up at our beautiful tree.
I thought it might be a little chilly for him, and I reached for one of his sweaters in a box.
It was an ugly Christmas sweater, with reindeer and bobbles and candy canes stitched on.
I laughed as I pulled it over his head.
He looked at me with consternation and despair, but I told him at least I wasn't making him wear his antlers yet.
Yet. Come see Bertie in his sweater, I called.
He peeked out from the kitchen with something in his hand.
He came closer and presented it to me, some leaves and red berries, tied together with the striped twine we saved from the bakery boxes.
He squatted down beside me and whispered, It's mistletoe.
I'm pretty sure these are bay leaves from the spice drawer.
They may still work, though.
Oh, they probably do.
Model trains and make believe.
There is something about this season, and the month of December in particular, in which becoming a kid again, slipping into that easily delighted state is more effortless and welcome than at any other time of year.
Even the bah humbugliest among us will at some point look up at a street light and watch the halo of snowflakes circling around it.
Or see a lit tree through a frosted window.
Or hear a carol plunked out on a piano in someone's front room.
And feel a shiver of excitement and warmth.
Just like they felt when they were young.
My own bah humbug quotient being naturally quite low to begin with, I found myself grinning at every shop window display, savoring each gingerbread cookie bought from the bakery and taking deep breaths as I passed the Christmas tree lot to drink up the scents of fresh sap and pine.
So when I saw that there would be a model railroad display in the lobby of the movie theater downtown, I knew right away not just that I would attend but that I would be a repeat visitor.
I love little things, miniature things, the tiny Christmas villages that nestle under trees, dollhouses with their lilliputian furnishings, and of course model trains.
I decided to go at least for the first time by myself so I could take all the time I wanted to just look.
I learned a long time ago that when the days are cold and dark, you have to look for the things that can be enjoyed and lean in deliberately.
So I parked at the park and came the long way through town to admire the lights strung over the street.
And by the time I arrived at the theater, my cheeks were stung with cold and stepping into their old -fashioned lobby felt wonderfully warm.
They had thick red carpets, brass fixtures, and a concession stand with a shining walnut bar that was as old as the building.
The smell of popcorn washed over me and I bought myself a box to enjoy while I browsed.
It came in the same red and white striped carton I'd been buying since my very first big screen movie.
See, I was already closer to my younger self.
Then the trains went fun.
The tracks snaked through the snowy landscapes set across a dozen platforms spanning nearly the full width of the lobby.
I started at the train station looking down with my bird's eye view and saw that there were four separate tracks coming in behind the depot along platforms bustling with tiny people.
The station master was there, a small arm raised and a whistle in her mouth.
And I imagined the sounds I would have heard if I were there beside her.
The train engines. People calling hello and goodbye.
Be careful and welcome home.
The peel of locomotive bells rustling over coats, shoes clapping against the platform boards.
Bits of gossip as scarves were tossed around necks and gloves pulled over fingers.
I hadn't even seen a train travel an inch yet and I was already having a wonderful time.
Beyond the depot was a small town and while it wasn't exactly our own little village it was a sort of tribute to it.
There was a movie theater showing Miracle on 34th Street per their marquee.
The sidewalks were heaped with snow just like our own and there were cars stopped at the streetlights with fir trees tied to the roofs.
I leaned down to look into the shops where people were buying toys and standing on street corners with wrapped presents under their arms.
All this time the trains hadn't been running.
Maybe to let the onlookers take in all the details first.
Or maybe because they were just running on the schedule set by the tiny station master.
Either way with a whistle and a whir they all came to life and began to travel over the tracks.
I picked one to follow with my eyes.
And saw a bright red engine leave the station with several cars full of passengers.
The lights in the lobby dimmed and the lights in the trains grew brighter.
The Christmas tree in their tiny town square glowed with colored bulbs.
Another locomotive caught my eye.
This one a shiny black.
And as it stopped to let a freight train chug across its tracks.
I leaned down and saw their dining car lit up and full of passengers and servers.
White tablecloths were spread over the tables and meals and drinks laid out.
Again I imagined myself there.
What might I order?
Or would I be the bartender shaking up a cocktail behind the bar as the snowy land slipped past?
The freight train cleared the tracks.
The switch was thrown and the diners sped off.
I walked around the platform to take in another angle.
And saw a forest green engine pulling its cars up a steep mountain path.
Beside the tracks were snow covered trees and ice capped peaks.
And a tunnel cut through the rock.
I thought of the person who must have made this little world.
The storytelling and drama they were able to build into it.
A thing like this must have taken hours and hours.
And I felt quite lucky to get to experience it at all.
It's a thing I love about humans when they find a passion and put themselves into it.
The gardener who knows the Latin names for all the plants in their greenhouse.
The amateur astronomer watching for a comet in the quiet of early morning.
Knitters and potters and model railroad enthusiasts.
Isn't it just a different version?
Of the little kid who knows every kind of dinosaur.
When I was in college there was a storefront between the bagel shop I stopped at most every morning and my first class of the day.
In that shop a man with silver hair made fine suits by hand.
And I often peered in to watch him dressed neatly in one of his own suits.
As the ironed fabric and marked it with chalk.
Years later I still thought of him often.
His work was clearly a passion.
And he did it with such care and skill.
The people who wore his suits must have felt like they were walking around in a work of art.
My box of popcorn was nearly empty.
And remembering that the trains would be on display all month.
I pulled my hat tight over my ears.
And got ready to head back into the night.
I pretended I was stepping off a train.
Rather than out of a theater.
And as I strolled through town I made up a story about coming home for the holidays.
My first time back in my hometown after a while away.
And who might be waiting for me?
Caring a lot about something.
Finding a passion. Imagining.
Telling stories and playing pretend.
I would never be too grown up for any of it.
The innkeeper's holiday.
For most of the winter season, the inn sits quiet and dark.
There might be a light on in one of the rooms on the top floor or in the library as the innkeeper caught up on her rest and relaxation.
She cooked small meals for herself down in the kitchen.
And shoveled just enough of the front drive to get in and out.
She watched from the back porch as the lake froze over and answered the phone when it rang with guests calling to book their summer stays.
But starting in the middle of December, the great house began to light up.
Strands of twinkle lights were wound around the fence posts in the drive and along the roof lines and porch rails.
The window boxes were stuffed with pine boughs and holly berries and tall, dried pine cones.
The innkeeper thought that there was something reminiscent of a honeycomb in their shape as she tucked them into place.
In the attic, she found boxes of glass ornaments and pretty ceramic reindeer that looked like they had been sculpted by hand.
She had been pushing the attic's stairs back up into place.
When she heard a car door slam from the drive, she hurried to the window in the staircase and saw a chef standing on the cobblestones looking up at her.
She waved and chef waved back and popped open the hatchback on their car, showing the crates of fresh food and cases of champagne they'd brought.
The innkeeper smiled wide and clapped her hands like a child.
She liked having the place to herself for a while, to read her books and make plans for next summer.
But she was ready for a bit of company, for the house to hum with life again, for the good sense of coffee cake and scones to rise up from the kitchen, and for guests to come and celebrate the end of one year and the beginning of another.
She set her boxes of decorations down at the foot of the staircase and pulled her overcoat from the hook in the front office.
And went out to help chef with the food.
They embraced in the cold air and caught up as they carried the food and wine down the long hallway and into the kitchen.
Chef had been traveling as they always did during the off -season.
Some of it for rest and vacation and some to cook in other kitchens.
They'd been somewhere sunny and warm, and after the holidays were headed to a ski chalet for the rest of the winter.
In the boxes were jars of beautiful green olives, packets of pine nuts, bags of red onions, and sleeves of fancy crisp crackers.
The innkeeper recognized the ingredients for chefs' fancy green olive pate that they served as past appetizers for their guests.
There were lots of other things too.
They'd be making a few big meals and afternoon teas and breakfast over the week or so that the inn was full.
Chef would make a gingerbread inn that would sit on the entryway table and plates of their dark chocolate truffles with flakes of sea salt on top.
She left chef to their work and got back to decorating.
She was dusting the reindeer and setting them in a scene on a long mantle above the fireplace.
When she realized music would make her work a little merrier.
They had a fancy sound system with speakers in all the common rooms, but she also kept a turntable on the desk by the window.
And in the boxes she'd brought down were a few holiday albums in cardboard sleeves.
She took one out holding it carefully along its edges with her fingertips and spun it to read the list of songs on each side.
They were old jazzy versions sung by crooners and sirens and she set it on the player and flipped the switch to start it turning.
She laid the needle carefully into the groove and listened to the piano and horns and jingle bells as she looked at the cover art.
By the afternoon the tables and mantles were done up.
The wreath was on the front door and the guest rooms had been made ready with fresh sheets and towels and small tabletop ceramic trees that lit up with a switch and made the rooms glow with soft colors.
She shared a plate of sandwiches with chef in the kitchen when they talked through the menus.
The next day guests would begin to arrive and they were booked full for the holiday.
What's left, chef asked.
The innkeeper took a long drink of her tea and said, just the tree.
In years past they'd had it in different spots, sometimes in the front hall to greet guests as they arrived and sometimes on the back porch where they served champagne, and looked out at the houses across the lake, lit up with holiday lights.
But this year they were doing something different.
They'd been working for months to restore the ballroom on the second floor.
There had been a leak in the ceiling that had damaged the plaster and there had been many missing tiles in the parquet floor.
The light fixtures had needed rewiring and the whole space needed fresh paint, new curtains, and furnishings.
Now it was ready. The ceiling patched and painted, glowing filament bulbs in the sconces, and a charming if slightly mismatched collection of settees and side tables clustered in groups.
The innkeeper thought it would make the perfect spot for the Christmas tree, for guests to gather, to share gifts and wishes for peace on earth, and then when the year ended to clink champagne glasses and have a midnight kiss.
She climbed the stairs to check the space and found the freshly polished floors glowing and the candles on the window sills ready to be lit.
She had the boxes of ornaments and many many strings of light ready for the tree.
From one window she could see the lake, frozen for a dozen feet at the shore and with dark rippling water further out.
There were still ducks, a dozen or more with dark green and gray feathers and one white farm duck among them and she smiled.
And said in a whisper that fogged the glass, found family.
It's how she felt too, here with the house, with chef and the guests who'd be arriving soon.
She crossed the room and looked out another window and saw a big truck with a tall Norway spruce in its bed, trundling down the drive, beeping its horn.
The tree farm. With just a week till Christmas there hadn't been many customers coming down the long gravel two -track to the farm today.
Most folks had their tree already and while we might get a few stragglers here and there, some cringle come lately, as we called them.
We were wrapping up for the year in little ways all over the farm.
Two of our three tractors that pulled trailers lined with hay bales, usually full of customers out into the fields to find their trees, which were now settled into the barn, swept clean and tucked in for the rest of the winter.
The last box of candy canes had been opened and hung on the branches of the giant tree in the shop.
And we didn't anticipate needing any more this season.
A few of our workers had taken their pay and their stocking from the long mantle, full of tips and treats, and wished us all a happy holiday and gotten on the road, headed home.
There were just a few of us left as the sun came closer to setting and the night air turned cold.
It had been a sunny day and in the bright light, busy with loading trees into pickup trucks or onto car roofs.
I'd shed my coat, warmed as much by my efforts as by the merry mood around me.
But now I pulled it back on and zipped it up to my nose.
I found my hat in the pocket and drew it firmly over my ears.
I wasn't ready to go home yet.
The farm is really beautiful at night.
Along the drive are strings of lights draped on poles wrapped to look like candy canes.
And near the barn and shop, everything is lit.
Candles in every window, wreaths on every door.
We have warming stations, heaters with their welcoming glow.
All of it really cheerful and lovely, but my favorite spot was out in the open fields under the stars where the moonlight reflected on the snow.
And the only sound was of the crunch of your boots and your own breath.
It was my job each night to make one last round with the tractor through the fields.
To make sure all of the customers had been collected, no villager left behind.
And now that I was better bundled, I set out.
We had a half dozen fields that were ready for cutting and many, many more planted for the future.
It was a careful system, rotating the fields so that the soil could rest, so that the trees would have time and space to grow.
And as I rolled through them, I felt a deep peace settle into me.
The night air was like peppermint in my nostrils, making me feel awake and attuned to the trees and the stars.
I had read once that the minerals in our bones had been born in the belly of a star.
Light years away and ages ago.
And when I rode through the fields at night and looked up, I did feel my place.
I was a child of the universe, the same as the pine trees and the deer bedded down in their dens.
I ran out of my hands.
I stopped on the edge of the douglas furs, turned off the engine, and reached for my thermos.
When I twisted off the top, steam, sweet and spicy, rose up and rippled in the air.
I poured my hot cider, spiced with cinnamon, into the thermos mug and wrapped my hands around it.
I leaned back in the tractor seat and propped my feet unprofessionally on the dash.
For a few minutes, I just sat and sipped and listened and looked.
The sky was cloudless.
There would be no snowfall tonight, and there was only the faintest bit of wind stirring the treetops.
When I'd had that last sip of cider from my cup, I closed up my thermos and started the tractor to finish the loop back to the shop.
Just as I came over the slight rise near the Nordman firs, I spotted a tree cut and left behind near the trail.
I clicked my tongue and shook my head.
It doesn't happen often, but every once in a while, someone will cut a tree and change their mind.
Spot a better one and leave the first behind.
We ask our guests not to do this, but it happens.
I stopped the tractor and jumped down.
I stood the tree up on its cut end and looked at it.
A perfectly handsome tree by anyone would have left it was beyond me.
I loaded it onto the trailer and climbed back in.
A few minutes later, I was turning in toward the barn when I spotted headlights coming slowly down the drive.
I stepped down from the tractor and pulled my gloves on, going to meet them.
The car stopped a few yards from the shop and a man stepped out.
He had a worried look about him.
His hands crammed in his pockets, and he hurried to the shop door and found it locked.
Hello, I called out to him.
He turned toward me, shielding his eyes from the bright strings of Christmas lights.
Hello, he called back.
Looks like I've missed the, well, not the boat, but maybe the sleigh.
I chuckled and strolled into the pool of light.
Nearly, but as long as I'm here, I might be able to help.
Need a tree? He sighed and smiled gratefully.
Yes, I meant to make it out earlier, but work kept me late, and I just don't want to go home one more day without one.
I'll take any tree you've got.
Must be Kismet. I just found an orphan tree in the field.
I pulled the tree down from the trailer and stood it for him beside the baler.
The piney scent was thick in the air, and I saw his face soften as he looked at it.
That's just the kind we had when I was a kid.
It smells just the same.
Well then, I thought someone had left it behind, but now I guess they'd cut it for you.
They must have known you'd be late and needed it.
His eyes brimmed and he bent his head, feeling around in his pockets for his wallet.
The shop was closed.
Our register shut down for the day, and as he drew out a card, I reached for the baling twine to tie the tree to his roof.
Uh, never mind, I said.
Just pass it along, okay?
Before the year is out.
Deal? He helped me hoist the tree up onto his car and caught the edge of the twine as I tossed it.
Deal. And Merry Christmas.
Game Night The tree was still up, and we still had plates of cookies decorated with red and green icing, and plenty of leftover holiday cheer.
And while the days before the 25th were full of that lovely anticipation that only happens once a year, the days immediately after felt like a deep sigh of relaxation.
Everything was done, and now we could just enjoy a bit of time.
Before we put our ducks in a row for the coming year.
A few years back, we'd started a tradition for the 31st, and it had stuck.
We'd had our share of glamorous New Year's Eve.
Nights out, dancing into the wee hours, coming home with confetti in our hair and crumpled noisemakers in the pockets of our coats.
At some point, that kind of celebration had slipped down the other side of the hill and gone from exciting to exhausting.
And that's when we started Game Night.
We'd invite half a dozen or so friends, make a big buffet of snacks, and clear off the kitchen table to make space for fun.
Remember fun? When we were kids, we woke each day with a deep -seated need and an insatiable appetite for it.
We sought it out, and often found it, a hundred times a day.
We made up games in an instant, played them until we thought up a better one, and then played that.
Game Night always reminded me how vital fun was, how good it felt to laugh until my cheeks hurt.
And now, instead of waking up bleary -eyed and head achy on New Year's Day, I was guaranteed to wake up feeling like a kid again.
We had a bit of cleaning up to do before our guests arrived, and we divvied up the jobs.
There was firewood to be brought in, food to prepare, and a few scraps of wrapping paper, still kicking around under the sofa in the living room to be picked up.
I volunteered for all kitchen -related chores, and left my better half to attend to the rest.
I always opted to be in the kitchen if I could.
It never felt like work to me.
Not when I could turn on some music, dance around in my socks, and chop and sauté, and wind up with something delicious at the end.
I started by making a soup, something thick and hearty for a cold December night.
I took a couple leeks from the fridge.
I thought they looked like green onions that had grown up and lived adult lives now.
I sliced them into coins and dropped them into the colander to rinse in the sink.
Leeks are grown in sandy soil.
They need to be washed carefully before they're cooked.
Some might find that a pain, but I liked all the small, fiddly parts of cooking.
Dicing things into even pieces, snipping herbs from stems, and even washing leeks.
Once they were squeaky clean, I sautéed them in the bottom of a giant soup pot with olive oil and a pinch of salt.
While they cooked down, I overturned a bag of golden potatoes onto the counter, and started peeling and chopping.
Then in with the potatoes and broth and fresh thyme and black pepper.
I had a grandfather who believed wholeheartedly in the healing properties of black pepper, and I always added an extra pinch for him.
I set the soup to simmer away and turned to the next task.
The soup would be perfect to serve up in cups between rounds, but we also needed finger foods that wouldn't interrupt our all -important play.
For this I made muhammara, a delicious dip of Syrian origin that felt pretty fancy, but came together in a flash.
It was made with roasted red peppers, walnuts, breadcrumbs, chili flakes, and pomegranate molasses, all blended together in my food processor.
It was a beautiful rich red color, and I spooned it into a few bowls which I could set around the table, surrounded by fresh veggies and toasted flatbread.
The soup was nearly ready, and our friends were expected soon, and I had just one more thing to make.
It was a treat, a bit rich in flavor, but one of those snacks that folks just can't leave alone.
Truffle popcorn. I popped a huge pot of popcorn, and when the kernels stopped pinging in the pan, I tipped all the fluffy hot pieces into a big brown paper bag.
I drizzled truffle oil in a tiny stream over the corn and added a good bit of pink salt.
Then I folded the top of the bag up and shook it for all I was worth.
I heard the fire crackling in the grate and had a feeling I was being watched in my dance of the truffle corn fairy.
But I didn't mind. How's that fire going?
I called out. I just heard a laugh come back at me.
I tipped the popcorn into a few bowls and set them out with a muhammara.
I stuck a few stacks of napkins around the place and turned on some music.
I had a few bottles of bubbly for toasting the new year.
I pushed open the door from the kitchen out to the backyard and stuck them neck deep into the nearest snow drift.
This is a handy part of living somewhere with plenty of snow.
Any snow bank can be an extension of your refrigerator.
As I was coming back in to stir the soup, I heard a friendly knock and the jingle bells on the front door ringing as our friends began to pile in.
Oh, the loveliness of having friends, dear and old enough to treat your home as their own.
As soon as coats were hung up and hugs exchanged, folks were reaching into cupboards for glasses, knowing just where the corkscrew and bottle openers were and setting themselves down at the table, rolling up their sleeves and getting ready to play.
I turned off the soup and set the lid ajar to let it cool.
I poured myself a glass of something.
The popcorn was disappearing just like I knew it would, and everyone wanted to know what its secret ingredient was.
But I was stubborn about sharing.
It's special to my house.
You'll have to come here when you crave it, I finally said, and set down a few board game boxes and decks of cards on the table as we debated what we'd play tonight.
Last game night, I had taught them a card game that my family had played when I was young.
And once everyone had caught on to its breakneck pace, we couldn't quit till nearly midnight.
We'd called it Nazi, or sometimes Peanuts.
But I'd heard it go by a dozen funny names, including The Racing Canfield, Peanuts Pounce, Peanuts, Scramble, Squeal, and Scrooge.
We all agreed after last time we had a few scores to settle, and decided to make it another night of cards.
We cleared away the boxes and passed around decks of cards, and all started to shuffle.
Card games had been a big deal in my family.
I knew how to shuffle cards like a blackjack dealer by the time I was seven years old.
And as I watched my friends mix and count out the first 13 of each deck, and pass them over to the person on their left, I had a strong memory of being the littlest one at the table with all my aunts and uncles.
My feet not yet touching the ground as we set up our hands, and waited with excitement for someone to shout, go.
Then the sounds of flipping cards, cards slapped onto the table, and grown -ups elbowing each other out of the way to get that seven of spades onto the sixth.
Now to be in my own home, my own family of friends, the smell of the popcorn and soup in the air.
And all of us, grinning around the table at each other, drumming our fingers, and waiting to turn that first card.
I guessed we'd probably forget to count down at midnight.
Too busy laughing and playing.
And then, at some point, run out into the snow to retrieve the champagne.
We'd raise our glasses and make a resolution.
This year, more fun.
Holiday at Weathervane Farm.
Just hanging the lights would take a day.
But I didn't mind at all.
It was a special time of year.
One that I looked forward to through the rainy days of spring, the summer heat, and especially as the leaves dried and fell.
On the drive up the road at night, when the farm came into sight, and you saw the trees wrapped in white lights, their branches suddenly picked out against the dark sky.
The roofline of the house and barn, and even the weathervane, all glowing.
Well, it made a day of work well worth it.
And besides the beauty, it was a way to guide visitors.
Our farm relied on the community to help us keep our rescued pigs and goats and donkeys in hay and feed for the winter.
So, a few years ago, we hatched an idea to bring them all together.
It involved lots of twinkle lights, hot cocoa and cider, and Santa hats with holes cut out for long floppy ears.
After all, who wouldn't want to drive out to the country on a snowy December evening and bewished season's bleedings by all the goats?
A volunteer knitted giant Christmas sweaters for the donkeys.
Our oldest and sweetest dog, a slow -moving pug who couldn't see too well, played Santa paws, laying on the cushioned seat of a small sled in the barn where people could tell him what they wanted for Christmas and get their pictures taken.
He often snoozed through the whole thing.
We strung mistletoe above the pigs enclosure, and while no one had actually gone in for a kiss, they did get quite a lot of belly rubs and treats.
We found big yoga balls painted like ornaments that the goats chased and tried to jump on.
Mostly, it was an excuse to bring people close to our animals and let them be reminded of how beautiful they were, how much they enjoyed their lives here, where they would never be in danger, where they would only know love.
And that being part of giving that safety and love was an excellent way to celebrate the season.
Over the years, we'd found a few ways to make the trip out to the country even more worthwhile.
A Christmas tree farm down the road began donating wreaths and garlands.
And now it was a regular part of the tradition for lots of people to get their front -door wreath from Weathervane Farm.
We also had urns of hot cocoa and trays of donuts and Christmas cookies set up around heaters on the front porch of the farmhouse.
And the tractor hitched to a wagon lined with hay bales to take folks out for rides through the snowy fields.
So today, as I took boxes of lights and decorations out to the yard, I was already full of holiday spirit.
I watched the ducks waddling off to the pond, which hadn't frozen over yet, to spend the day sunbathing on the banks.
They called to each other as they went, and I sang out, Honk the herald angels sing.
I cracked me up. I looked down at the lights in my hands.
I knew there was a system for this.
Where to start, and the best way to proceed.
Without getting the cords all tangled up.
But I never remembered it.
It was always a process of trial and error.
So I picked an outlet, plugged in a set of lights, and started to string them up.
As I made my way around the back side of the barn, I looked out at the back pasture.
We'd had a new addition to Weathervane a while back.
Well, two additions actually.
Our first cow. She'd come at the end of the summer, in need of some medical care, and skittish at first.
We'd soon learned she was pregnant.
And one early morning, a few weeks passed, we'd found her with a beautiful, light brown fuzzy calf, laying in the straw.
The vet had pronounced them both in good health, and him in need of a name.
I couldn't help myself.
With his tan blonde fur, and round belly, he was immediately dubbed Winnie the Moo.
Winnie and his mom were chewing in the pasture.
And I stepped one foot up onto the fence rail, and leaned in to coo at them.
Mom lifted her head to look at me, still unsure about all of us.
It would take a while to earn her trust, and that was fine.
Winnie, never having known anything but safety, came right up to the fence, Mom hurrying behind him to keep watch.
And she let me reach out, and give him a scratch along his neck.
On the nights we had visitors, we'd take them to the smaller barn out back, where they could bed down in the straw, and have a bit of privacy.
Maybe some Christmas, they would want to don their reindeer antlers, and join in the fun, but not this year.
I went back to my work, adding more lights, and big candy canes the size of shepherd's hooks that stuck into the ground.
We'd had a bit of snow the week before, but it had melted away within a day or two, when I was hoping for more before the festivities began.
It certainly was getting colder.
I was keeping warm with my work, but I noticed the ducks coming back early from their excursion to nestle in at the barn.
I heard a horn blowing down the long driveway, and checked that all the gates were closed.
I walked down the drive to wave at a big truck I recognized.
The wreaths were here, the yards and yards of garland, made from Easter white pine with its long, soft needles.
I noticed, among all the greenery, a tree bundled in twine stuck in with the rest.
I could hear one of our donkeys braying in the yard, excited by a visitor.
I called out as they climbed down from the truck, mule -tied greetings.
I got one of them to chuckle.
The other shook his head and said, That's it.
I'm taking your present back.
What present? What did you bring me?
They hauled the huge Christmas tree out of the open bed and stood it up.
It must have been 20 feet tall.
I grinned at them, and they grinned back.
Where should we put it?
I laughed. Somewhere the goats won't knock it over, he said with a sigh.
Mistletoe and Marmalade It was our first Christmas together.
Well, we'd had Christmases as friends, plenty of them, and a Christmas in the early days of falling in love.
But this was our first Christmas as a married couple.
As a blended family.
There was me, my ginger cat, Marmalade, my scruffy brown dog, Crumb, and now, my love, and his sleepy giant greyhound, Birdie.
In some ways, it felt like we'd been together for ages, and in others, it all felt brand new.
I'd known how he took his coffee, no milk, a spoonful of sugar, and I knew his taste in music and the story behind the old green corduroy jacket he'd had since college.
But I was completely surprised by his passion for tabletop RPGs and near -encyclopedic knowledge of the history and flavor profiles of many, many varieties of chilies.
I think I had surprised him, too.
When I'd replaced the sconces in the bedroom with some vintage ones I'd rebuilt and rewired, he'd joyfully flicked the switch off and on several times, admitting that this was well above his skillset and seemed like magic to him.
I had a feeling that this was one of the joys of loving someone for a long time, realizing there was always more to learn about them.
The animals had also learned more.
For example, that Birdie liked to graze and didn't usually eat his breakfast all at once.
Once Crumb realized there was a second breakfast available, just one bowl over, he'd scarf his own and then dive into Birdie's.
This had led to a somewhat complicated mourning routine involving shooing Crumb out into the yard as soon as he'd finished his last kibble and convincing Bird to go on and clean his plate.
But most days we managed it.
Marmalade, as usual, took it all in stride.
She had priorities.
She needed to lay on her perch and watch the birds at the feeder.
She needed several naps to bathe her paws and face and have some uninterrupted one -on -one time with me.
And whether there was one dog chasing his tail or two while she did it, she didn't much care.
I knew some of her disaffected nature was put on.
She liked to appear a bit above her brothers.
But I'd also seen her bathe both of their faces when they'd come back from their chuck -ups at the vet.
And on movie night, her favorite spot was right between them, her chin resting on Bird's back and her back paw stretched out to touch Crumb's belly.
We were a happy little pack heading into the holidays.
A decorating had been a good deal of fun for all of us.
I wasn't a very organized person, so when it came time to gather together all the bulbs and strands of light and little houses for the Christmas village, we'd had to troop up to the attic down into the basement, route through the garage and dig under the bed.
But eventually, we found nearly everything.
Our tree went up in the living room, right in front of the big picture window where it could be seen from the street.
There was a moment of contention while we debated white lights versus colored lights.
But luckily, my sweetheart realized I'd made a very convincing argument, and my pick were strung up.
As we hung up bulbs and ornaments, some from my collection and some from his, we told the stories of them.
Here was the bulb my mom had been gifted the year I was born, with the date still etched on the side.
And the crack that had been carefully glued after I'd pulled the tree down when I was three.
Here was the ornament made of popsicle sticks and cotton balls he'd glued together in kindergarten.
Unrecognizable, as any particular thing but cherished just the same.
As we decorated, the animals watched a bit nervously from their beds.
Boxes were often regarded with suspicion by all of them.
Things were either coming in or going out, and they weren't sure they approved of either.
Finally, marmalade, bravest of the three, tiptoed up to the tree, and reached a paw out toward a green glass bulb.
I could see her curious eyes reflected in the surface, and whether she broke the bulb or not, I thought I was likely to remember this moment for years to come.
Her wonder at it, the glow of the tree lights through the fur of her ears.
She batted it experimentally, and I squatted down beside her, and replaced it with a felted mouse on skis.
She reached out again, batting at it, and watching the branch bounce as it was buffeted.
I gave up and just unhooked the mouse and tossed it for her.
She caught it and kicked it under the couch, where she could just barely fit.
Her hind legs and tail sticking out as she wrestled with her new toy.
We decided to move anything breakable up to the higher branches.
Crumb came closer to sniff at the boxes and tilted his head as I wound the key on the bottom of a snow globe and tipped it up in front of him.
A tinny version of the Christmas song played as we watched the suspended snowflakes slowly drift down over a little house not so different from our own.
I hummed along and reached out to scratch under his chin, to pups from one to ninety -two.
Though it's been said many times, many ways, meowee Christmas to you.
I heard a chuckle from the other room and wondered if my appreciation for bad puns had come as a surprise, like my electrical handyman skills had.
I heard him bustling around in the kitchen, a drawer opening, and wondered if he was starting dinner.
I set the snow globe down in front of Crumb, who got down on his belly and pressed his nose to the glass, still watching the snow fall.
Bluebird stood and stretched beside the couch, and I called him over.
He sat down beside me and I put my arm around him, and we looked up at our beautiful tree.
I thought it might be a bit chilly for him when I reached for one of his sweaters in a box.
It was an ugly Christmas sweater with reindeer and baubles and candy canes stitched on.
I laughed as I pulled it over his head.
He looked at me with consternation and despair, but I told him at least I wasn't making him wear his antlers, yet.
Come see Birdie in his sweater, I called.
He peeked out from the kitchen with something in his hand.
He came closer and presented it to me.
Some leaves and red berries tied together with the striped twine we saved from the bakery boxes.
He squatted down beside me and whispered, it's mistletoe.
I'm pretty sure these are bay leaves from the spice drawer.
Hmm, they may still work though.
Oh, probably they do.
Model trains and make -believe.
There is something about this season, and the month of December in particular.
In which becoming a kid again, slipping into that easily delighted state, is more effortless and welcome than at any other time of the year.
Even the bah -hum -bugliest among us will, at some point, look up at a street light and watch the halo of snowflakes circling around it.
Or see a lit tree through a frosted window.
Or hear a carol plunked out on a piano in someone's front room and feel a shiver of excitement and warmth, just like they felt when they were young.
My own bah -hum -bug quotient being naturally quite low to begin with.
I found myself grinning at every shop window display, savoring each gingerbread cookie bought from the bakery.
And taking deep breaths as I passed the Christmas tree lot to drink up the scents of fresh sap and pine.
So when I saw that there would be a model railroad display in the lobby of the movie theater downtown, I knew right away not just that I would attend, but that I would be a repeat visitor.
I love little things, miniature things, the tiny Christmas villages that nestle under trees, dollhouses with their Lilliputian furnishings, and of course model trains.
I decided to go at least for the first time by myself so I could take all the time I wanted just to look.
I'd learned a long time ago that when the days are cold and dark, you have to look for the things that can be enjoyed in them and lean in deliberately.
So I parked at the park and came the long way through town to admire the lights strung over the street.
And by the time I'd arrived at the theater, my cheeks were stung with cold and stepping into their old -fashioned lobby felt wonderfully warm.
They had thick carpets, brass fixtures, and a concession stand with a shining walnut bar that was as old as the building.
The smell of popcorn washed over me, and I bought myself a box to enjoy while I browsed.
It came in the same red and white striped carton I'd been buying since my very first big screen movie.
See, I was already closer to my younger self.
Then, the trains…what fun.
The tracks snaked through snowy landscapes set across a dozen platforms, spanning nearly the full width of the theater lobby I started at the train station, looking down with my bird's eye view and saw that there were four separate tracks coming in behind the depot, along platforms bustling with tiny
people. The station master was there, a small arm raised and a whistle in her mouth, and I imagined the sounds I would have heard if I were there beside her.
The train engines. People calling hello and goodbye.
Be careful and welcome home.
The peal of locomotive bells, rustling overcoats, shoes clapping against the platform boards, bits of gossip, as scarves were tossed around necks and gloves pulled over fingers.
I hadn't even seen a train go one inch yet, and I was already having a wonderful time.
Beyond the depot was a small town, and while it wasn't exactly our own village, it was a sort of tribute to it.
There was a movie theater, showing Miracle on 34th Street, per their marquee.
The sidewalks were heaped with snow, just like our own, and there were cars stopped at the streetlight with fur trees tied to their roofs.
I leaned down to look into the shops where people were buying toys, were standing on street corners with wrapped presents under their arms.
All this time, the trains hadn't been running.
Maybe to let the onlookers take in all the details, or maybe because they were just running on the schedule set by the tiny station master.
Either way, with a whistle and a whir, they came to life and began to travel over the tracks.
I picked one to follow with my eyes and saw a bright red engine leave the station, with several cars full of passengers.
The lights in the lobby dimmed, and the lights in the train grew brighter.
The Christmas tree, in their own tiny town square, glowed with colored bulbs.
Another locomotive caught my eye, this one a shiny black.
And as it stopped to let a freight train chug across its tracks, I leaned down and saw their dining car lit up, and full of passengers and servers.
White tablecloths were spread over the tables and meals and drinks laid out.
Again, I imagined myself there.
What might I order?
Or would I be the bartender, shaking up a cocktail behind the bar as the snowy land slipped past?
The freight train cleared the tracks, the switch was thrown, and the diners sped off.
I walked around the platform to take in another angle, and saw a forest green engine pulling its cars up a steep mountain path.
Beside the tracks were snow covered trees and ice capped peaks, and a tunnel cut through the rock.
I thought of the person who must have made this little world, the storytelling and drama they were able to build into it.
A thing like this, it must have taken hours and hours.
And I felt quite lucky to get to experience it at all.
It is a thing I love about humans when they find a passion and put themselves into it.
The gardener who knows the Latin names for all the plants in their greenhouse, the amateur astronomer watching for a comet in the quiet of early morning, knitters and potters and model railroad enthusiasts.
Isn't it just another version of the little kid who knows every kind of dinosaur?
When I was in college, there was a storefront between the bagel shop I stopped at most every morning and my first class of the day.
In that shop, a man with silver hair made fine suits by hand.
And I often peered in to watch him, dressed neatly in one of his own suits.
As he ironed fabric and marked it with chalk.
Years later, I still thought of him often.
His work was clearly a passion and he did it with such care and skill.
The people who wore his suits must have felt like they were walking around in a work of art.
My box of popcorn was nearly empty.
And remembering that the trains would be on display all month.
I pulled my hat tight over my ears and got ready to head back into the night.
I pretended I was stepping off a train rather than out of a theater.
And as I strolled through town, I made up a story.
About coming home for the holidays.
My first time back in my hometown after a while away.
And who might be waiting for me?
Caring a lot about something.
Finding a passion. Imagining.
Telling stories and playing pretend.
I would never be too grown up for any of it.
The innkeeper's holiday.
For most of the winter season, the inn sat quiet.
And dark. There might be a light on in one of the rooms on the top floor.
Or in the library as the innkeeper caught up on her rest and relaxation.
She cooked small meals for herself down in the kitchen.
And shoveled just enough of the front drive to get in and out.
She watched from the back porch as the lake froze over.
And answered the phone when it rang with guests calling to book their summer stays.
But starting in the middle of December, the great house began to light up.
Strands of twinkle lights were wound around the fence posts in the drive and along the roof lines and porch rails.
The window boxes were stuffed with pine boughs and holly berries and tall dried pine cones.
The innkeeper thought that there was something reminiscent of a honeycomb in their shape as she tucked them into place.
In the attic, she found boxes of glass ornaments and pretty ceramic reindeer.
That looked like they'd been sculpted by hand.
She'd been pushing the attic's stairs back up into place when she heard a car door slam from the drive.
She hurried to the window in the staircase and saw a chef standing on the cobblestones looking up at her.
She waved and chef waved back and popped open the hatchback on their car showing the crates of fresh food and cases of champagne they'd brought.
The innkeeper smiled wide and clapped her hands like a child.
She'd liked having the place to herself for a while, to read her books and make plans for next summer.
But she was ready for a bit of company, for the house to hum with life again, for the good sense of coffee cake and scones to rise up from the kitchen and for guests to come and celebrate the end of one year and the beginning of another.
She set her boxes of decorations down at the foot of the staircase and pulled her overcoat from the hook in the front office and went out to help chef with the food.
They embraced in the cold air and caught up as they carried the food and wine down the long hallway and into the kitchen.
Chef had been traveling as they always did during the off -season.
Some of it for rest and vacation and some to cook in other kitchens.
They'd been somewhere sunny and warm and after the holidays were headed to a ski chalet for the rest of the winter.
In the boxes were jars of beautiful green olives, packets of pine nuts, bags of red onions, and sleeves of fancy crisp crackers.
The innkeeper recognized the ingredients for chefs' fancy green olive pate that they served as past appetizers for their guests.
There were lots of other things too.
They'd be making a few big meals and afternoon teas and breakfast over the week or so that the inn was full.
Chef would make a gingerbread inn that would sit on the entryway table and plates of their dark chocolate truffles with flakes of sea salt on top.
She left chef to their work and got back to decorating.
She was dusting the reindeer and setting them in a scene on the long mantel above the fireplace.
When she realized music would make her work a little merrier, they had a fancy sound system with speakers in all the common rooms.
But she also kept a turntable on the desk by the window.
And in the boxes she'd brought down were a few holiday albums and cardboard sleeves.
She took one out, holding it carefully along its edges with her fingertips.
And spun it to read the list of songs on each side.
They were old jazzy versions sung by crooners and sirens.
And she set it on the player and flipped the switch to start it turning.
And she laid the needle carefully into the groove and listened to the piano and horns and jingle bells as she looked at the cover art.
By the afternoon the tables and mantels were done up.
The wreath was on the front door and the guest rooms had been made ready with fresh sheets and towels and small tabletop ceramic trees that lit up with a switch and made the rooms glow with soft colors.
She shared a plate of sandwiches with chef in the kitchen and they talked through the menus.
The next day guests would begin to arrive and they were booked full for the holiday.
What's left, chef asked.
The innkeeper took a long drink of her tea and said, just the tree.
In years past they'd had it in different spots.
Sometimes in the front hall to greet guests as they arrived.
And sometimes on the back porch where they served champagne and looked out at the houses across the lake, lit up with holiday lights.
But this year they were doing something different.
They'd been working for months to restore the ballroom on the second floor.
There had been a leak in the ceiling that had damaged the plaster.
And there had been many missing tiles in the parquet floor.
The light fixtures had needed rewiring.
And the whole space needed fresh paint, new curtains and furnishings.
Now it was ready. The ceiling patched and painted.
Glowing filament bulbs in the sconces.
And a charming if slightly mismatched collection of settees and side tables clustered in groups.
The innkeeper thought it would make the perfect spot for the Christmas tree.
For guests to gather.
To share gifts and wishes for peace on earth.
And then when the year ended to clink champagne glasses and have a midnight kiss.
She climbed the stairs to check the space.
And found the freshly polished floors glowing.
And the candles on the windowsills ready to be lit.
She had the boxes of ornaments and many, many strings of lights ready for the tree.
From one window she could see the lake.
Frozen for a dozen feet at the shore.
And with dark rippling water farther out.
There were still ducks.
A dozen or more with dark green and gray feathers.
And one white farm duck among them.
And she smiled and said in a whisper that fogged the glass.
Found family. That's how she felt too.
Here with the house.
With chef and the guests who'd be arriving soon.
She crossed the room and looked out another window.
And saw a big truck with a tall Norway spruce in its bed.
Trundling down the drive.
Beeping its horn. The tree farm.
With just a week until Christmas.
There hadn't been many customers coming down the long gravel two -track to the farm today.
Most folks had their tree already.
And while we might get a few stragglers here and there, some crinkle come lately as we called them.
We were wrapping up for the year, in little ways, all over the farm.
Two of our three tractors that pulled trailers lined with hay bales, usually full of customers out into the fields to find their trees, were now settled in the barn, swept clean and tucked in for the rest of the winter.
The last box of candy canes had been opened and hung on the branches of the giant tree in the shop.
And we didn't anticipate needing any more this season.
A few of our workers had taken their pay and their stocking from the long mantle, full of tips and treats, and wished us all a happy holiday and gotten on the road headed home.
There were just a few of us left as the sun came closer to setting.
And the night air turned cold.
It had been a sunny day.
And in the bright light, busy with loading trees into pickup trucks, or onto car roofs, I'd shed my coat, warmed as much by my efforts as by the merry mood around me.
But now I pulled it back on and zipped it up to my nose.
I found my hat in my pocket and drew it firmly over my ears.
I wasn't ready to go home yet.
The farm is really beautiful at night.
Along the drive are strings of lights draped on poles wrapped to look like candy canes.
And near the barn and shop, everything is lit.
Candles in every window, wreaths on every door.
We have warming stations, heaters with their welcoming glow.
All of it really cheerful and lovely.
But my favorite spot was out in the open fields, under the stars, where the moonlight reflected on the snow and the only sound was the crunch of your boots and your breath.
It was my job each night to make one last round with the tractor through the fields, to make sure all of the customers had been collected.
No villager left behind.
And now that I was better bundled, I set out.
We had a half dozen fields that were ready for cutting and many, many more planted for the future.
It was a careful system, rotating the fields so that the soil could rest.
So that the trees would have time and space to grow.
And as I rolled through them, I felt a deep peace settle into me.
The night air was like peppermint in my nostrils, making me feel awake and attuned to the trees and the stars.
I had read once that the minerals in our bones had been born in the belly of a star, light years away and ages ago.
And when I rode through the fields at night and looked up, I did feel my place.
I was a child of the universe, the same as the pine trees and the deer, bedded down in their dens.
I stopped on the edge of the Douglas firs, turned off the engine, and reached for my thermos.
When I twisted off the top, steam, sweet and spicy, rose up and rippled in the air.
I poured my hot cider, spiced with cinnamon, into the thermos mug and wrapped my hands around it.
I leaned back in the tractor seat and propped my feet unprofessionally on the dash.
For a few minutes, I just sat and sipped and listened and looked.
The sky was cloudless.
There would be no snowfall tonight.
And there was only the faintest bit of wind stirring the treetops.
When I'd had the last sip of cider from my cup, I closed up my thermos and started the tractor to finish the loop back to the shop.
Just as I came over the slight rise near the Nordman firs, I spotted a tree cut and left behind near the trail.
I clicked my tongue and shook my head.
It doesn't happen often, but every once in a while someone will cut a tree and then change their mind, spot a better one, and leave the first behind.
We ask our guests not to do this, but it happens.
I stopped the tractor and jumped down.
I stood the tree up on its cut end and looked at it, a perfectly handsome tree.
Why anyone would have left it behind was beyond me.
I loaded it onto the trailer and climbed back in.
A few minutes later, I was turning in toward the barn when I spotted headlights coming slowly down the drive.
I stepped down from the tractor and pulled my gloves on, going to meet them.
The car stopped a few yards from the shop and a man stepped out.
He had a worried look about him.
His hands crammed in his pockets, and he hurried to the shop door and found it locked.
Hello, I called out to him.
He turned toward me, shielding his eyes from the bright strings of Christmas lights.
Hello, he called back.
Looks like I've missed the, well, not the boat, but maybe the sleigh.
I chuckled and strolled into the pool of light, nearly, but as long as I'm here, I might be able to help.
Need a tree? He sighed and smiled gratefully.
Yes, I meant to make it out earlier.
But work kept me late, and I just don't want to go home one more day without one.
I'll take any tree you've got.
Must be Kismet. I just found an orphan tree in a lot.
I pulled the tree down from the trailer and stood it for him beside the baler.
The piney scent was thick in the air, and I saw his face soften as he looked at it.
That's just the kind we had when I was a kid.
It smells just the same.
Well, then, I thought someone had left it behind, but now I guess they'd cut it for you.
They must have known you'd be late and that you needed it.
His eyes brimmed, and he bent his head, feeling around in his pockets for his wallet.
The shop was closed.
Our register shut down for the day, and as he drew out a card, I reached for the baling twine to tie the tree to his roof.
Ah, never mind, I said.
Just pass it along before the year is out.
Deal? He helped me hoist the tree up onto his car and caught the edge of the twine as I tossed it.
Deal and Merry Christmas.
Game night. The tree was still up, and we still had plates of cookies decorated with red and green icing and plenty of leftover holiday cheer.
And while the days before the 25th were full of that lovely anticipation that only happens once a year, the days immediately after felt like a deep sigh of relaxation.
Everything was done, and now we could just enjoy a bit of time before we put our ducks in a row for the coming year.
A few years back, we'd started a tradition for the 31st, and it had stuck.
We'd had our fair share of glamorous New Year's Eve, nights out dancing into the wee hours, coming home with confetti in our hair and crumbled noisemakers in the pockets of our coats.
At some point, that kind of celebration had slipped down the other side of the hill and gone from exciting, to exhausting, and that's when we started game night.
We'd invite half a dozen or so friends, make a big buffet of snacks, and clear off the dining room table to make space for fun.
Remember fun? When we were kids, we woke up each day with a deep -seated need and an insatiable appetite for it.
We sought it out and often found it a hundred times a day.
We made up games in an instant, played them until we thought up a better one, then played that.
Game night always reminded me how vital fun was, how good it felt to laugh until my cheeks hurt.
And now, instead of waking up bleary -eyed and head icky on New Year's Day, I was guaranteed to wake up feeling like a kid again.
We had a bit of cleaning to do before our guests arrived, and we divvied up the jobs.
There was firewood to be brought in, food to prepare, and a few scraps of wrapping paper still kicking around under the sofa in the living room to be picked up.
I volunteered for all kitchen -related chores and left my better half to attend to the rest.
I always opted to be in the kitchen if I could.
It almost never felt like work to me.
Not when I could turn on some music and dance around in my socks and chop and saute and wind up with something delicious at the end.
I started by making a soup, something thick and hardy for a cold December night.
I took a couple of leaks from the fridge.
I thought they looked like green onions that had grown up and lived adult lives now.
I sliced them into coins and dropped them into a colander to rinse in the sink.
Leaks are grown in sandy soil and need to be washed carefully before they're cooked.
Some might find that a pain, but I liked all the small fiddly parts of cooking, dicing things into even pieces, snipping herbs from stems, and even washing leaks.
Once they were squeaky clean, I sauteed them in the bottom of my giant soup pot with olive oil and a pinch of salt.
While they cooked down, I overturned a bag of golden potatoes onto the counter.
I started peeling and chopping.
Then in with the potatoes and broth and fresh thyme and black pepper.
I had a grandfather who believed wholeheartedly in the healing properties of black pepper, and I always added an extra pinch for him.
I set the soup to simmer away and turned to the next task.
The soup would be perfect to serve up in cups between rounds, but we also needed finger foods that wouldn't interrupt our all -important play.
For this I made muhammara, a delicious dip of Syrian origin.
It felt pretty fancy, but came together in a flash.
It was made with roasted red peppers, walnuts, breadcrumbs, chili flakes, and pomegranate molasses.
All blended together in my food processor.
It was a beautiful rich red color, and I spooned it into a few bowls, which I could sit around the table, surrounded by fresh veggies and toasted flatbread.
The soup was nearly ready, and our friends were expected soon, and I had one more thing to make.
It was a treat, a bit rich in flavor, but one of those snacks that folks just can't leave alone.
Truffle popcorn. I popped a huge pot of popcorn, and when the kernels stopped pinging in the pan, I tipped all the fluffy, hot pieces into a big brown paper bag.
I drizzled truffle oil in a tiny stream over the corn and added a good bit of pink salt.
Then I folded the top of the bag up and shook it for all I was worth.
I heard the fire crackling in the grate and had a feeling I was being watched in my dance of the truffle corn fairy, but I didn't mind.
How's that fire going?
I called out, and just heard a laugh come back at me.
I tipped the popcorn into a few bowls and set them out with a muhammara.
I stuck a few stacks of napkins around the place and turned on some music.
I had a couple bottles of bubbly for toasting the new year, and I pushed open the door from the kitchen out to the backyard and stuck them neck deep into the nearest snowdrift.
This is a handy part of living somewhere with plenty of snow.
Any snowbank can be an extension of your refrigerator.
As I was coming back in to stir the soup, I heard a friendly knock and the jingle bells on the front door ringing as our friends began to pile in.
Oh, the loveliness of having friends, dear and old enough to treat your home as their own.
As soon as coats were hung up and hugs exchanged, folks were reaching into cupboards for glasses.
Knowing just where the corkscrew and bottle openers were, and setting themselves down at the table, rolling up their sleeves and getting ready to play.
I turned off the soup and set the lid ajar to let it cool.
I un -poured myself a glass of something.
The popcorn was disappearing just like I knew it would, and everyone wanted to know what its secret ingredient was.
But I was stubborn about sharing.
It's special to my house.
You'll have to come here when you crave it, I finally said, and set down a few board game boxes and decks of cards on the table.
As we debated what we'd play tonight, last game night, I had taught them a card game that my family had played when I was young, and once everyone had caught on to its breakneck pace, we couldn't quit till nearly midnight.
We'd called it nutsie, or sometimes peanuts, but I'd heard it go by a dozen funny names, including The Racing Canfield, Peanuts Pounce, Scramble, Squeal, and Scrooge.
We all agreed. After last time, we had a few scores to settle, and decided to make it another night of cards.
We cleared away the game boxes and passed around decks of cards and all started to shuffle.
And card games had been a big deal in my family.
I knew how to shuffle cards like a blackjack dealer by the time I was seven years old, And as I watched my friends mix and count out the first thirteen of each deck, pass them over to the person on their left.
I had a strong memory of being the littlest one at the table with all my aunts and uncles.
My feet not yet touching the ground as we set up our hands and waited with excitement for someone to shout, Go.
Then the sounds of flipping cards, cards slapped onto the table and grownups elbowing each other out of the way to get that seven of spades onto the six.
Now, to be in my own home, my own family of friends, the smell of popcorn and soup in the air, and all of us grinning around the table at each other, drumming our fingers, and waiting to turn that first card.
I guess we'd probably forget to count down at midnight.
Too busy laughing and playing.
And then, at some point, run out into the snow to retrieve the champagne.
We'd raise our glasses and make a resolution.
This year, more fun.
Sweet dreams.
