On Christmas Eve, my mother tells of her parents disappearing into the music room and closing the doors behind them. In the living room, warmed by the fire, three anxious children fidgeted and waited. Then, all at once, with a dramatic gesture, my grandmother flew open the doors and there, shining with tiny burning candles was this year’s Christmas tree! The presents and any expectation of receiving more than this light filled moment baffled my mother to the extent that one remarkable year she failed to comprehend that the lovely baby doll under the twinkling tree was indeed for her!

My mother inherited a passion for Christmas. Her holiday baking begins before Thanksgiving! Fruit cake with farm walnuts, pfeffernuese, lebkuken, frosted cutouts, chocolate drops, fudge and tiny gingerbread men. My parents encouraged creativity. My three sisters and I made gifts and wrapped them in hand painted papers. Our Christmas mornings were filled with anticipation. We opened presents one at a time, eager to see if the gift we had made was a hit! My daughter, Abby, grew up with handmade quilts, throw pillows, photographs and paintings created just for her.

Now several cookie baking years later, I’m watching like a mouse in the kitchen corner as Abby establishes traditions in her own home, singing in her clear soprano voice as she frosts hearts and reindeer with her daughter, Haley. Each generation borrows from the past, continuing in the making of memories. My granddaughter’s love for music and song writing led to my invitation for her contribution to Sleigh Ride. “Easy, Beste Ma! I’ll write my song about the elf who tucked me in that time at Sunriver Resort!” And that she did!

And so, from my grandmother’s music room, through long hours of practice on my father’s old upright and now through French doors just past my own Oregon kitchen, take a peek at the black lacquered piano in my music room. And if you stand very still and listen with your spirit, you’ll hear generations singing!