Roberts: Home for the holidays isn't a matter of geography

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Spice things up this holiday season with gifts that will bring people together for a memorable time Scott Craven/The Republic

My brother recently emailed an old picture of the Christmas wreaths that hung on our front door when we were kids.

“This picture,” he wrote, “reminds me of some wonderful holiday times in Des Moines. (A bit cold for at least me and Dad – and presumably everyone else in our family – in December though. I can vividly remember Dad burning Christmas wrappings on Christmas night while (maybe) muttering under his breath and his reaction in 1975 to being transferred to Phoenix – can you spell "YES!!!!")”

Our family moved around a lot, so we never had much in the way of relatives around during the holidays. Home, for us, was never really a street address. It was a matter of heart, of each other, with Christmases celebrated in a continually changing geography.

Why Christmas is Nashville

My younger brother and sister don’t much remember it, but for me, Christmas will always be Nashville, where we would bundle up at night and walk along the sprawling manger display in front of the Parthenon in Centennial Park.

The 100 or more life-size statues were a gift to the city from the owner of a local department store – when there were such things as local department stores. There were no moving parts, no flash-bang special effects. But we were awed by the beauty of the lighted nativity and the promise of the season. (OK, not so much spiritually as in a Santa Claus kind of way, but hey, we were kids.)

Why Christmas also is New Orleans

For me, Christmas will always be New Orleans, where we strolled the animated displays beside the big houses in the Garden District and bought hot cider from sidewalk vendors catering to the crowd. On Christmas Eve, we could open one gift and oh, what a tragedy if you were unlucky enough to open clothes.

On Christmas morning, my older brother Bill and I would get up at 2 a.m. and sneak downstairs to see what Santa had brought. Our parents – still awake, having just finished assembling train sets or doll houses or whatever Santa was bringing that year– would get all cranky and chase us back to bed.

But really, it didn’t matter because we’d cased all the closets weeks before and could catalog what we were getting. And yet, on Christmas morning there was always that one surprise.

Why Christmas is Omaha

For me, Christmas will always be Omaha, where the snow fell thick and wet and the whole family piled into the car and drove around to ooh and aah at Christmas lights. And on Sunday nights, we’d gather around the dining room table at Advent, as our parents would read to us once again the story of a tiny baby born in a manger. Then we'd fight over whose turn it was to perform a Christmas carol. (In those days, I played a mean flute.)

Where my brother and I found a blow-up elf and named him Little Ned Tinkler. We thought we were hilarious as we regaled the family with Little’s Ned’s adventures. Funny how we were so often the only ones laughing. Funny, how he and I are still laughing about Little Ned. (And still the only ones.)

Why Christmas is Des Moines and Phoenix

For me, Christmas will always be Des Moines, where the tree was a stick that had to be thawed out in the garage ... only to find out after the ice melted that it was still a stick with no good side. But hey ... icicles.

Where my sister and I wore long dresses on Christmas Eve and Dad wore his trademark red wool vest and Christmas socks. And after church there would be board games and egg nog ... heavy on the nog.

And Christmas is Phoenix, where we marveled at the Merry Christmas message spelled out on Camelback Mountain and at the house on the way to church that transformed its three giant saguaros into the three wise men.

Where we were moved by the silence of the living nativity at St. Barnabas and on Christmas Eve, by the soft strains of "Silent Night," sung while on our knees inside a crowded, still sanctuary.

One place is truly home for the holidays

Eventually we had the pleasure of watching the whole magical cycle begin again, with a new generation. Seeing Mom and Dad as grandparents. What a gift that was. Still is, really, though they are gone now – and yet somehow, still here.

Because Christmas, for me – and I suspect, for many of you – is remembering all those holidays that are behind us and giving thanks for these days now and for those yet to come.

Home for the holidays? It doesn't happen on a particular street or a certain ZIP code. It's right there, in your heart.

MORE GREAT CHRISTMAS READS:

Montini: A Christmas stocking filled with ghosts

Editorial: Make luminarias your new (old) Christmas tradition

Valdez: He rejected my $20 Christmas tip, and I love why he did