By Joanne Peterson

  My Christmas tree still glows in the corner of my living room. White lights glimmer across the tops of kitchen cupboards and shine in the tall cedar that brushes against my deck. 

At dusk—or on dark afternoons—I light candles.  Outside my front door, holiday decorations remain in place: greenery, red berries and plaid bows. 

My mom’s Christmas decorations were numerous and charming—but, invariably, they came down on New Year’s Day. 

I, on the other hand, seem to be developing a new tradition:  My kids in Idaho and in West Seattle eventually settle on a mutually acceptable weekend and come to my place for a late Christmas celebration.

Last Christmas, our celebration was the last week in January.  This year, the event has yet to be scheduled—somewhat at the whim of the railroad for which my son works. 

Once I may have written about my engineer son Brad requesting time off for his sister’s wedding in Seattle.  He was granted the time off—and then was called to work the day before the wedding.  Reminding the dispatcher of his scheduled time off—and why—Brad was told, basically, “Fine.  I’ll just put down that you refused your call.” 

As I remember, he was “written up” for his alleged infraction, and received a disciplinary letter.  So, you see, I know better than to plan very far ahead for any family event, lest railroad management get word that something important might be happening in the life of an engineer, and Brad find himself running a midnight train to Whitefish instead of driving a station wagon to Edmonds.  (There is no way he would grant me permission to share these things, so I’ll just hope he doesn’t read this.

Anyway, I figure mothers can tell whatever stories they wish and expect no retaliation from management.)

The thing about having a belated Christmas at my place is that I get as much thrill of anticipation as Annika does.  Of course, a 6-year-old who already had a marvelous Christmas in Idaho won’t object to having another Christmas, weeks later. 

My granddaughter will be wide-eyed with delight when she walks through Grandma Jo’s doorway and sees another tree and more gifts.

 In West Seattle, I had a merry Christmas with daughter Lisa and family.  Baby Adam, 8 months old, mostly sat amid crumpled wrappings and bright plastic objects.  He picked up nesting blocks, shook musical animals and chewed cardboard boxes. Blue eyes round with baffled pleasure, he could scarcely register all that was going on around him. 

At one point, he inched his way under the Christmas tree and sat—only partially visible—looking out in wonderment.  I understood how he felt.

 Soon, a lovely bonus:  I’ll have my grandson and granddaughter and their parents all in Edmonds for our belated family Christmas together.  I can hardly wait!