I always knew when we crossed the border from Vermont to New Hampshire, even if I was asleep, which I often was. Dad rolled down his window to pay the fifty-cent toll for the old covered bridge. The cold air snapped around my body, signaling one more hour to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I loved Christmas in New Hampshire.

Snow crunched and squeaked under the tires as we pulled into the drive. It felt so late, but Grandma and Grandpa inevitably appeared at the door, flooding the darkness with the porch light. Despite the squeals and hugs and kisses, I pretended to be asleep so Dad would scoop me up in his arms and carry me in the house. I cautiously peered through my eyelashes and saw the front porch, then the washroom, on through the kitchen still smelling of popcorn, up the carpeted stairs, and into the cool front room facing the lake. Dad would lower me into the quilted bed and quietly retreat with a “goodnight Muggs.” He left the door ajar, a sharp triangle of yellow light dividing the floor. I fell asleep with a sigh and a smile.

My brother was the first to wake. Jumping on my bed seemed to bring him great pleasure, so I never hollered at him. Hand in hand we padded to the kitchen and into the arms of Grandma. She could hug us both at the same time. Hearing our giggles, Grandpa would get up from his desk with a wide grin and peck our cheeks. He smelled of root beer, candy corn, and eraser. Then he would return to his office to continue rolling pennies or opening envelopes while Grandma made us breakfast. We knew stories would come later, when Grandpa’s work was done, my brother and I feet to feet, snuggled under scratchy wool blankets on the sofa by the woodstove.