December 20, 2006
The long-ago Christmases, the ones when my grandparents were alive (they all died within a calendar year) and I was young, are easier to remember than more recent ones. The ones that gave me the most joy at the time are now the most painful to recall. Every other year, my father would come to spend Christmas with his California-based children (he alternated between us and our sister in England). He’d rent a big house in Bodega Bay, where there was room for all of us. We’d cook together. We’d have a picnic on the beach on Christmas Eve.