When I think of Christmas, I think about when I was a kid. I remember sitting in the living room with the lights on the tree. The smell of cinnamon rolls would be in the air. Mom would have bowls of fruit and our favorite nuts and candy sitting on the counter. The camera would be flashing to make memories of our opening the gifts. Dad would sneak away so he could put coal in the furnace, so the house would be nice and warm as we sat on the floor in our new pajamas. There were six kids and mom and dad, and I don’t ever remember an argument, or someone complaining if somebody seem to have got more. Santa was something that we went to the corner radio shop to follow on the shop owner’s newest radio. When the updates came through that Santa was in the US, we would run back home so we could go to bed. We always smelled of the wood fire he had in his fireplace. Mom would make us take a shower and we went to bed. After breakfast, we would walk to my grandmother’s. She always had a fire in the warm morning stove and you could smell the heat. Grandma made the best mince meat pies and she would have a fresh pie sitting on the table, waiting for us to eat. Christmas was simple back then. I have so many fond memories and I always equate the joy we felt with the warmth of the heating that was in the house. It may be a bit odd to some, but it was the fireplace, the wood or coal stove, and the smell of baking that is the ghost of Christmas past for me.