Here I sit, with a steaming cup of coffee, in my cozy and comfortable home, looking out at the sun sparkling on the harbor. My little world here in Maine is safe, secure, and I relish my good health. Memories bubble up about my childhood.

It is close to Christmas, and my thoughts return to my parents, and the struggles that they had as children. I saw none of that growing up, as we had a happy home, an excellent education, gifts around the tree. Each Christmas was a ritual: my Aunt Freda would read “The Night Before Christmas” from a big picture book, the adults put us to bed gently; they toiled into the night, setting up a tree, arranging the garden under it, with a Lionel train, miniature houses, snow on their rooftops. The gifts were taken out of their hiding places and scattered over the living room, waiting for us to see them the next morning. My brother and I always woke up early, prodding Mom and Dad to hurry up. The descent down the stairs began, with Dad in the lead in his red plaid bathrobe and Daniel Green slippers, followed by Mom and my brother, then me at the end, straining to see what was below. We did this every year, and that ritual was the biggest gift of all. That is what is seared in my memory, not what was in the wrapped gifts. (The one exception was the coveted wood table and chairs for my dolls).

My dad liked to talk about his Christmases spent on the farm, with his three brothers and one sister. They had limited financial resources, many mouths to feed, and animals to tend. One of Dad's uncles had moved away from Virginia to Baltimore, found a good job, bought a home, and married a lovely woman named Emma. They had no children, and wanted to share their abundance with my Dad's family on the farm.

Very few people traveled by car from Baltimore to Virginia at that time, so trips were made by ferry. If Uncle Eddie and Aunt Emma could not make the trip, they would send gifts in a big barrel. And what my dad remembered to his dying day was the joy he felt when they met the ferry and opened the barrel. One year it was oranges! Enough for all of the children to share, with some left over for stuffing with cloves, putting in fruit cakes, or curling and drying the skins. Aunt Emma was transformed, in my father's eyes, into a special Santa.

I now recall these memories of my father, to keep them alive for me and for my family. When Dad was living the last few days of his life, he asked me to find a picture of Aunt Emma. I put it in a fancy gold frame, placed it on his bedside table, and he sighed with delight. Bringing joy to a child is a wondrous thing, and to have that child remember it until his dying day is even more wondrous.

So what I remember best at this time of year was the joy of our Christmas ritual, not the gifts in fancy packages. And what my dad remembered best was the gift of love, represented by those oranges.