"Oh, Ernie!" Mamma would say, "It was only a glass ball, and it's Christmas. The children want to help." So, we would gingerly pick up ornaments, choosing those that, if dropped, would survive the fall. Harry would carefully string the lights, wrapping, twisting, and tucking the cord behind the branches so that even a discriminating eye could believe that this tree grew the bulbs of red, green, and blue. Dad would finally put an Angel that Gramma sent us from the United States on the top of the tree. The angel had blinking lights in its robes and wings; we thought it was a gaudy thing: it was—but it grew on us.

The anticipation of that day continued to grow as Mamma placed on the mantel strings of elves, paper hand in paper hand, all ready to jump up and begin dancing around, mischievously, as though the secret they had found was too much to keep. She hung Swedish tapestries of fat Santas laughing, their faces red and warm, glowing from the painted flames of a brightly burning fire. On the table were red candles surrounded by holly wreaths, and little angels flew round and round ringing bells. Mistletoe that we picked at Mt. Akagi hung from arches beckoning people to walk beneath. The tissue paper was repacked in boxes, and the three wise men were set on the piano. Stockings were hung empty, but full of promise. And in the center of it all, on the coffee table, was a manger, with baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothes.

During the following weeks, Mamma played Christmas carols and baked Rosettes, Spritz, and Swedish pancake cookies rolled into tubes that we could look through. Each day we would open a new window in the Advent calendar, while secretly hoping that Christmas would come tomorrow, and we wouldn't have to wait so long. Or we would sit on Mamma's and Dad's laps before bedtime—dressed in our pajamas and robes—as Dad would read us the Christmas story from Luke chapter two—and we too would sleep in perfect peace all through the night.

There were the evenings when all the lights were turned off. The lighted tree and candle flames bounced off the glass balls. The room was full of reflections, a thousand small suns glowing gold and red and blue. Music and bayberry and the deep scent of live fir filled the house. There were presents under the tree on a snowy ground, each gift having been squeezed, shook, and sized up while others weren't watching. A child's imagination burst; elves were dancing and angels flying and wise men riding their camels across the piano, following the star of David hovering above the manger on the coffee table.

A week after Christmas, the magic was carefully wrapped in tissue paper and packed away in a large tea box for another year. Dad would plant the tree again in the yard. Over the next year, as I grew, I'd watch the tree grow as if it had to stay just enough bigger than me to lend itself to the awe and wonder of Christmas the next year.