The Newlywed Dilemma

 Every December brings its own little rituals, the scent of pine needles clinging to winter coats, the faint hum of carols floating through grocery store speakers, and the familiar tug of memories asking us to step back into stories we’ve lived a hundred times before. But it also brings a very particular holiday challenge, one that couples of all ages know all too well: whose family do we spend Christmas Day with?

It is a debate wrapped in love, sprinkled with tension, and basted in gravy. And, for many of us, it has shaped years of holiday traditions.

In the early days of our marriage, my wife and I tried very hard to be fair, or at least festive, about the whole thing. Christmas Day itself belonged to her side of the family, and the day after Boxing day was reserved for mine. It wasn’t so much a carefully negotiated agreement as it was a simple recognition of geography and personalities. I knew my brothers would gather at my parents’ house on the 25th, and I also knew that my wife’s family had perfected the art of the grand holiday feast.

And what a feast it was.

Imagine a kitchen that smelled like roasted turkey, brown sugar ham, and that distinctly comforting aroma of potatoes baking slowly under a crust of cheese and butter. Imagine a parade of relatives, some I suspected had been hiding in the basement awaiting their cue, bursting through the door with desserts, gifts, and enough stories to fuel the evening. You could hear laughter before you even opened the door, as if joy had its own volume knob turned up to eleven.

By early afternoon, the house was full. By late evening, it was very full, children chasing each other between legs, adults balancing plates on knees, and the unmistakable murmur of contentment that comes from people who have eaten far more than they should but intend to continue anyway.

Boxing Day became the day dedicated to visiting friends. We’d start at 10:00 a.m. sharp, well, “sharp” in a loose, holiday sense, and make our rounds like social Santas delivering good cheer. There was hot cocoa in one home, shortbread in another, and those slightly experimental holiday beverages someone always insists “turned out better last year.” But the joy was in the journey: the hugs, the updates, the shared laughter, and the quiet comfort of knowing these friendships shaped the landscape of our lives.

Then came the ferry rides to Vancouver Island to visit my side of the family. If you’ve ever carried a tin of cookies and two small children through a crowded holiday ferry terminal, you know it’s an Olympic sport all on its own. The reward, though, was always the same: stepping off the boat into the bracing, salty air and falling back into the familiar rhythm of my own family’s traditions, stories told loudly, the same jokes told even louder, and desserts that seemed to multiply every time someone walked into the kitchen.

For a few years after our children were born, we kept this holiday marathon going. We packed the car with toys, travel mugs, and the unwavering optimism of young parents. But eventually, reality, and exhaustion, caught up with us. One year, after buckling a very sleepy toddler into a car seat on Christmas evening, my wife and I looked at each other and realized we needed a new plan.

And so, we made one.
We decided it was time to create our own traditions in our own home.

That first Christmas felt different. Quieter. Less rushed. The house had its own warmth, our warmth. The tree lights glowed softly against the windows, the children padded around in new pajamas, and we hosted Christmas dinner for whoever wished to join us. We invited friends on Boxing Day, turning it into a relaxed open house where snacks appeared as if by magic and the coffee pot never stopped working. It was simple, but it was ours. We belonged to ourselves for the holiday, and somehow that felt like the best gift of all.

This memory bubbled up again recently when I was talking to my daughter about her holiday plans. She lives in Australia now, far from snow, ferry terminals, and the great Canadian turkey debate. She is blissfully exempt from the gentle tug-of-war that many couples still find themselves in, including my son and his partner: your family’s turkey or mine?

It’s a classic dilemma. One filled with love, loyalty, compromise, and the occasional burnt gravy. And yet, for all the fuss it creates, it’s also a sign of something wonderfully human: that we care deeply about where we belong, and with whom we share our holidays.

Whether you spend Christmas Day with your side, their side, a mix of both, or wrapped in the cozy quiet of your own home, the heart of the season remains the same. Love stretches. Traditions bend. New stories are created in the most unexpected ways.

And in the end, as I like to say, love finds a way, even through the mashed potatoes.

The Road Home for Christmas

For so many years, our Christmas travels were traced in familiar, well-worn routes. They were not grand expeditions, but pilgrimages of the heart. There was the annual journey to Vancouver Island, usually in that quiet, reflective week after Christmas Day. We would bundle into the car, the backseat stacked with gifts and leftover shortbread, and make for the ferry. I can still feel the crisp, salty air on my face as we stood on the deck, watching the mainland recede into a grey mist. The scent of the sea, mixed with the ferry’s diesel fumes, was the smell of transition, of moving from our own new traditions back to the rootstock of my childhood.

Then there was the Christmas Eve drive to the in-laws’ home in Metro Vancouver. We’d brave the roads, often slick with a cold, Pacific Northwest rain, the windshield wipers keeping rhythm with the carols on the radio. The world outside would be a blur of taillights and neon reflections, but our destination was a beacon of light and noise. Pushing open the door was like stepping into a wall of warmth, the humid scent of a dozen simmering dishes, the roar of overlapping conversations, the shrieks of cousins playing in the basement. It was a beautiful, chaotic, and necessary journey, a tether to family that defined the season.

When retirement came, so did a new kind of freedom. With the children grown and the rigid schedule of work lifted, we decided to trade the snowy landscapes for summer sun. My wife, her mom and I spent a  Christmas in Mexico, where the air was thick with the scent of frangipani and salt, and our tree was a palm tree strung with lights. My wife and I celebrated in Hawaii, with a picnic on the sand and the sound of waves providing a gentle, tropical carol. One remarkable year, we found ourselves in the bright Australian summer, with our grandson, my daughter and her partner, eating pavlova under a southern sky where the constellations were unfamiliar. The sensory details were vibrant and new: the taste of a mango straight from the tree, the feel of warm sand underfoot on Christmas morning, the sight of Santa Claus painted on a surfboard.

It was glorious, an adventure we cherished. Yet, amidst the novelty, there was a quiet, persistent whisper. It was the memory of the scent of a fresh-cut fir tree, the feeling of wool socks on a cold floor, the specific taste of my mother’s stuffing. We had escaped the winter, but we had also left behind the sensory anchors of the season we had known all our lives.

Now, we no longer travel during the Christmas season. The suitcases remain in the closet, and the world, with its planes, trains, and bustling highways, carries on without us. At first, it felt like a concession, but we have since discovered it is a profound gift.

Our home, which for decades was merely a pitstop between holiday gatherings, has become the destination. And in staying put, we have rediscovered the deep, resonant magic of a home at Christmas. Now, we have the time to truly savor the rituals. I can spend a whole afternoon watching my wife baking, letting the rich aroma of ginger and molasses truly settle into the walls. We can sit for hours with only the tree lights on, watching the play of color on the ornaments, each one a tangible piece of our shared history. The silence is not empty; it is full of memory and peace.

We understand why people brave the crowded airports and icy roads. They travel because there is, indeed, no place like home for the holidays. But what we’ve learned is that “home” is not just a physical location on a map. It is a feeling you carry, and sometimes, you must journey far away to find your way back to it.

Our home has become that sacred space. The travel we do now is not across miles, but through Christmases past. It is a journey taken in the crackle of the fireplace, in the taste of a familiar recipe, in the soft glow of the lights on our own tree, standing proudly in the corner where it has always stood. The greatest journey, we’ve found, is the one that leads you back to your own heart, to the quiet, steadfast joy of being exactly where you belong.

Holiday Puns & Mistletoe Mischief

There’s a certain magic in the air during December, a sparkle that seems to dance not just in the twinkling lights, but in the very words we speak. It’s a time for warmth, for reflection, and for the kind of gentle, good-natured humor that feels like a cozy, shared secret. So, let’s gather ‘round for a month-long dose of cheer, one pun, one joke, and one nostalgic story at a time.

December 1: What do you call a reindeer with bad manners? Rude-olph!

December 2: I remember the gentle thump of the Sears Wish Book landing on the front porch. My brother and I would spend hours, our noses almost touching the pages, tracing the glossy images of toys with our fingertips, the scent of newsprint and possibility filling the air.

December 3: Why was the snowman looking through the carrots? He was picking his nose!

December 4: The best way to hear a classic holiday tune is to Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow.

December 5: There’s nothing quite like the first batch of gingerbread. The way the molasses and spices perfume the entire house, a warm, sweet hug you can breathe in. And the feel of the sticky dough under the rolling pin, a promise of chewy, spiced perfection.

December 6: What do you call an elf who just won the lottery? A lucky elf!

December 7: Why don’t Christmas trees ever get lonely? Because they always have lots of fir-ends!

December 8: I miss the clatter and clang of my mother’s holiday baking. The rhythmic click-clack of her metal mixer, the deep gong of the oven door, and finally, the satisfying thwack of a perfectly turned-out fruitcake onto the cooling rack.

December 9: What’s a snowman’s favorite breakfast? Frosted Flakes!

December 10: I asked my dad what we should name our new dog, who we got in December. He said, “How about Santa Paws?” We still laugh about it every year.

December 11: The soft, almost silent hiss of snow falling outside the windowpane is one of the most peaceful sounds in the world. It’s nature’s way of tucking the world in for a long winter’s nap.

December 12: What do you call a grumpy old snowman? A melt-down. (My grandkids love this one!)

December 13: Why are Christmas cookies so good at keeping secrets? Because they’re always getting stuffed!

December 14: Remember stringing popcorn and cranberries? The sharp pop of the needle through the cranberry, the fluffy white kernels sometimes shattering in your hands, leaving buttery fingerprints on the thread. It was a tedious, wonderful labor of love.

December 15: What do you get if you cross a snowman and a vampire? Frostbite!

December 16: I told my wife she was drawing her eyebrows too high. She looked surprised. (A classic "dad" joke for the season!)

December 17: The sound of a sleigh bell in the distance, even if it's just on a recording, still makes my heart skip a beat. It’s the sound of pure, unadulterated childhood magic.

December 18: Why did the scarecrow win an award? Because he was out-standing in his field! …Sorry, I know it’s not a holiday joke, but my grandson told it to me while building a snowman and it made me chuckle.

December 19: What’s a gingerbread man’s best advice? Use your loaf!

December 20: There’s a special kind of quiet on Christmas Eve, after the kids are finally asleep. The only light comes from the tree, and the only sound is the soft crackle of the fire and the steady tick-tock of the clock, counting down to morning.

December 21: What do you call a reindeer that tells jokes? A comedi-hen!

December 22: Why was the math book so worried about the holidays? Because it had too many problems!

December 23: The feel of a worn, velvet Christmas stocking, heavy with odd-shaped treasures, is a feeling you never forget. Reaching inside, you never knew if you’d find the waxy smoothness of a chocolate orange or the fuzzy texture of a new pair of socks.

December 24: What do you call a snowman in the rain? A puddle.

December 25: On this day of all days, remember the best pun of all: that the joy of the season is truly un-wrap-able. May your day be filled with warmth, laughter, and the love of those near and dear.

December 26: Why did the boy tinsel his Christmas tree? He wanted to make it shimmer!

December 27: The day after Christmas has its own charm. The house is quiet, filled with the pleasant scent of leftover turkey and pine. It’s a day for fuzzy slippers, a good book, and appreciating the calm after the wonderful storm.

December 28: What do you call a broke Santa? Saint Nickel-less!

December 29: I asked my granddaughter if she’d checked the weather for New Year’s. She said, “Not yet, but I’m sure it’s going to be seasonable.”

December 30: There’s something hopeful about taking down the decorations. Carefully wrapping each ornament in tissue paper is like tucking away a little piece of joy, a promise to unwrap it all again next year.

December 31: As we raise a glass to the New Year, let's remember: the best jokes, the warmest memories, and the brightest hopes are the ones we share. Here's to a happy, healthy, and humor-filled year ahead!

May your December be filled with the simple, heartfelt magic of a shared smile and the cozy warmth of togetherness.

A Toast to Friendship

There is a particular quality to the light in December, a low, slanting gold that seems to paint the world in the colors of memory. It catches the dust motes dancing in a quiet living room and transports me, as surely as any machine, to a different time. I am suddenly in a crowded, noisy house, the air thick with the scent of roasting turkey, pine boughs, and a dozen different perfumes. My ears are filled with the glorious cacophony of a holiday party in full swing: the booming laugh of my old friend, Mark, the clink of glasses raised in a toast, the scratchy sound of a classic holiday record playing from the stereo. Our children, then small and dizzy with excitement, weaved through a forest of adult legs, their squeals of laughter a part of the music. Those nights were long, sleepless, and utterly wonderful. We were surrounded, enveloped in a warm, bustling press of family and friends.

For years, that was the heartbeat of our holidays, a beautiful, overwhelming symphony of togetherness. We never imagined the orchestra would ever grow quiet. But life, in its gentle, inexorable way, moves on. Our children grew, built their own lives, and quite rightly, wanted to create their own Christmas magic for our grandchildren. The guest list for our grand festivities slowly shifted. Friends, too, began to drift. Some moved to sunnier climes or closer to their own grandchildren, their addresses changing in our books. Others, more painfully, slipped into the quiet realm of memory, their faces now visiting only in dreams and old photographs. The big party became a smaller dinner, and then, for a year or two, a silence where the echo of that old laughter felt almost too loud to bear.

It is in this quieter chapter that we learn a new, profound lesson about friendship. The circle does not disappear; it changes shape. We learn to cherish the friends who have walked every mile with us, the ones who, though they may be miles away, are only a phone call from being present in spirit. A card in the mailbox, scrawled with a familiar hand, becomes a treasure. A scheduled video call, where we raise a cup of coffee to each other across the continents, becomes a new kind of toast. These connections are the steady, enduring embers from the great fire of our youth.

And then, there is the quiet, brave work of building new hearths. Friendship in our later years may not be the wild, spontaneous combustion of youth, but it is often a warmer, more deliberate flame. It is found in the shared nod of recognition with another grandparent at the school play. It is kindled over a cup of tea with a new neighbor, where we discover a shared love for birdwatching or old movies. It is the friendship that begins in a watercolor class or a volunteer shift at the local library, built not on the frantic energy of raising families, but on the shared ground of this specific, reflective season of life.

These new friends may not have known us when our hair was dark and our children were small, but they know us now. They understand the landscape of this time, the joy of having more time, the poignancy of missing those who are gone, the quiet satisfaction of a life fully lived. We create new traditions with them: a simple potluck supper instead of a grand party, a walk through the glittering neighborhood lights instead of a late-night gathering.

So, as this golden December light fades into evening, I raise my glass. Here is a toast to the friends of a lifetime, whose memories are woven into the very fabric of our holidays. We see your faces in the flickering of the fire, and we carry you in our hearts, always. And here is a toast, too, to the new friends, the brave and beautiful souls who are helping us write the next chapters of our story. You remind us that the heart has an endless capacity for expansion.

The circle may be different now, but it is no less warm. It is lit by the same spirit of love, laughter, and shared humanity that has always been the true magic of the season. Cheers to you all, near and far. You make every season brighter.