A Christmas Story

     At Christmas my mind always drifts back to the house at Berry Creek. Berry Creek Sits a fault line, Balcones. Georgetown is about twenty minutes from Austin, but Berry Creek is more of a country setting. There's an eighteen hole golf course that winds through the neighborhood. We were on the tenth green. The first generation of grandkids played on the greens, ever vigilant for golfers teeing off. My granddaughter, Jo Jo would wear a little fireman's helmet backwards and shout, "Incoming!" whenever a cart approached the tee box. 

     The house was large. It was one of three that we owned in the neighborhood, but it was the largest. It was a copy of Elvis' Graceland. With four columns and a winding staircase. The entrance took your breath away. From the front door you could see all the way through and the huge picture windows afforded a view of the greens beyond the back yard. There were three living areas, an office and even a theater on the second floor. We would do evenings on the back deck, watching the golfers play through. 

     Christmas was a big deal in the house on the green. It would fill up with people. There was a sixteen foot Christmas tree situated by the curved staircase, and the grandchildren each year would use the stair case as an assist to dress the tree, which was spectacular!  Every ornament had a special meaning from someone's past from the ceramic angel on top to the "Wilbur" glass ball on the lower branches. 

     Christmas was twelve days, no ifs, no ands, no buts! With turkeys and hams and a full bar, the entire time was a feast. Guests would come and go, and sleep in the guest rooms, some spilling over to the two other houses on the same street. There was a golf cart and they would take moonlight drives on the course, and look at the Christmas lights which were beautiful. The season would extend until New Year's, and sometimes the house never slept. 

     When Christmas was ended it would take a while to take down the tree, and all the decorations. Little by little Christmas would disappear until next time. The smells would linger, sometimes until Easter. When the tree and all the trimmings were finally gone the house would seem somehow empty. Life would return to normal. 

     I don't remember the last Christmas. I don't know if there was one. I think God fogged that memory so that only the good ones remained. I go by there now and again but  it's not the same. The house has been sold and resold, seems no one finds happiness there. It's been renovated, of course, and I think that made the house angry so it took its magic and nobody can ever really fit in again. 

     In the end it was just Jackie and I. She called it our "pretty prison." Where we used to have more guests than chairs there were now empty chairs covering the porches, and decks. It was a bit like sitting on the deck of the sunken Titanic. And we watched it sink. One day it was gone, and the Christmas house was no more. But, you know, love lives forever, and I think if you sit on the porch at night, when it's quiet, you can still hear the children. The house is lonely, and waits for people who can never return. At Christmas my mind always drifts back to the house at Berry Creek