Christmas morning at the Burnham house was always joyful and noisy. Mom and Dad would watch as their seven, yes, count ’em, children tore open gifts faster than a flock of gulls swooping down and fighting over a fish on a boat deck. As the action ensued, screams of delight prompted quick glances and big smiles, as crumpled paper and ribbons flew across the room at Dad, who after years of such training, could’ve been a back-up goalie for the Bruins.

The ripping and tearing came only after each of us carefully opened one gift while the others looked on and waited for their turn. Each of us got to choose one gift to open first, never on Christmas Eve, and the anticipation was agonizing. The wait sometimes became downright excruciating when Dad decided to get up late (anytime after 6 a.m.!) and/or decided to have a little breakfast before we could start.

Some of the gifts were practical and we came to know what we were getting from Aunt Barbara (Lorrain),  the knitting queen of Boothbay Harbor. If I had a dollar for every mitten she has knitted over the years, I could probably retire.

Gifts from Santa, such as sleds, shovels, stuffed animals and more, weren’t wrapped but they were tagged. We weren’t even supposed to look at the tags until Dad sat down in his corner chair (we think he stalled just to make us more anxious), but inevitably we did peek, finding out whose sled was whose, etc.

As you can imagine, with seven children and two giving parents, the mound of presents was daunting. The gifts were piled all around and halfway up the six-foot Christmas tree — usually taking up one-third of the living room. Add the Burnham clan, a couch, three stuffed chairs, two or three tables and a black Lab and you get the picture — packed.

The noise would sometimes become deafening, especially after all the gifts were open. That’s when relatives would arrive. We’d show off our toy trucks by making great engine sound effects. There would most always be a toy or musical instrument with which to make more noise with. It was a virtual Whoville — we would have made the Grinch cringe.

There was always the annual group photo, with each kid (usually still wearing pajamas) holding his or her favorite gift. My brothers, sisters and I would either gather in front of the tree or on the stairs for the picture. It was usually a 20-minute procedure: First, finding everyone in the big house and second, choosing the right gift to hold.

I’m not absolutely sure, but I think Mom’s motive behind taking us to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve was to tire us out so we would sleep in to let Dad catch a few extra winks on Christmas morning (or so he could take that time to wrap the final gifts). Whatever — it rarely worked. I remember one Christmas when my older brother Bruce kept us up, saying he was going to sneak downstairs after Mom and Dad went to bed and bring one of his presents into our room where he would open it, see what it was, and bring it back rewrapped.

I recall that he thought it was something special but when he opened it, the gift was a set of model or poster paints — hardly a memorable gift. I think we all got about an hour’s sleep that early Christmas morning.

We grew up, for the most part, in the 1960s. We didn’t have a Super 8 camera (that’s what people had in those days) to record our family gatherings. It would be great to now see a video of the seven of us in action those Christmas mornings. We do have the photographs and memories to cherish, but it’s the noise — that wonderful noise of happy children on Christmas morning — that I miss most.

Merry Christmas to all.