To the Editor:
I wanted to share this with you. I am 73 years old.
When we were little, for my sister Ellen and I, were sad when we took down the Christmas decorations, carefully wrapped the manger, and the antique bulbs you never see the likes of any more.
But there was always one last small gift hidden deep in the branches of the (real) tree for us to find, giving us one last taste of the holiday joy. Never understood how we could have missed it.
Then momma would have us string stale bread on the tree before she took it out to the burn pile so the birds could have a Christmas treat.
My mother was an amazing woman.