Christmases were idyllic when my brothers and I were very young, or at least they seemed that way to me. Like every family, we had our own traditions, including a pillowcase full of surprises at the foot of each bed on Christmas morn and three or four highly prized confections that turned up in the kitchen only in December. But the big draw for me was the Christmas day drive an hour or so west of the city to my uncle’s big, impressive house. Empty roads, snow, and the atmosphere of sweet anticipation.
Mom’s eldest brother was — not to put too fine a point on it — set in his ways. He wasn’t going anywhere for Christmas. I don’t believe he ever did. The family was coming to him. Also, his wife was a lovely, generous, hospitable woman who didn’t in the least mind opening her home to her husband’s four siblings, their spouses and multitudinous offspring. The arrangement worked for many years until it didn’t.

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