I only go once a year

When I guess of Christmas, I guess about when I was a kid.  I remember sitting in the dining 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 gas furnace, so the house would be nice and hot as both of us sat on the floor in our new pajamas.  There were six girls 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 both of us opted to go to the corner radio shop to follow on the shop owner’s newest radio.  When the upgrades came through that Santa was in the US, both of us would run back house so both of us could go to bed. Every one of us constantly smelled of the wood fire he had in his fireplace. Mom would make us take a shower and both of us opted to go to bed.  After lunch, both of us would walk to my Grandma’s. She constantly had a fire in the hot day 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 straight-forward back then.  I have so various fond memories and I constantly equate the delight both of us felt with the warmth of the heating that was in the house. It may be a bit peculiar to some, however it was the fireplace, the wood or coal stove, and the smell of baking that is the ghost of Christmas past for me.