The fire in the old fireplace in the front living room was burning steadily, putting out the only warmth in the living room.

I lay on the rug before the fire with my stocking. We’d finished opening gifts in front of the tree, Grandmama in her chair wearing her green quilted robe, Uncle Walter fully dressed in his starched white shirt and grey sweater and Mama in her bright red cardigan. Grandmama had left and gone to dress, to prepare for kitchen activities, Uncle Walter had thumped down the hall with his walking stick to help, and Mama was busy picking up wrapping paper and throwing it into the fire, bustling around, straightening up the room.

I lay there in my pajamas with my stocking, choosing a piece of candy from it that was slightly fuzzy from spending a sticky night in the felt toe. It didn’t bother either of us to suck on fuzzy candy. It was the ribbon striped hard candy that only appeared at Christmas and tasted like wintergreen.

We lay there, listening to a broadcast on the radio of Charles Dickens’ “A

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