Christmas at Grandma's was the highlight of my childhood years. Seven sets of aunts and uncles and gobs of cousins squeezed together under the roof of the old ranch house where she lived.  Grandma's living room twinkled with the multicolored lights on her lopsided tree and her scarred oak table swayed under a load of popcorn balls, homemade candy, and other once-a-year treats. Throughout the evening, neighboring ranchers and townsfolk stopped in to partake of the merriment sure to be found at the Moore ranch on Christmas Eve. Somehow the old house expanded to hold the horde.

This treasured tradition continued even after my dad's death, until Grandma died when I was fifteen. That year, as the holiday season approached, Mom informed my brother, sister, and me that we wouldn't be going to the ranch. "It's time for us to form our own family traditions," she explained. I was devastated, unable to imagine celebrating Christmas with only four people.

That first holiday was difficult. It took time ...