It was a very silent night when Ed read my Christmas list; apparently a new Featherlite Gooseneck horse trailer with air-conditioned living quarters was out of the question. Penciling the trailer in on my list had given me high hopes that at the very least a brand-new, shiny, red wheelbarrow would be in my horse barn on Christmas morning. Perfume and jewelry were out of the question; the smell of a horse in the sun and a new halter as an accessory would suit me just fine!

One year, I was the recipient of a five-foot-long piece of iron with steak knives attached to the end. Looking around for a very large cow for Christmas dinner, I was informed we would be going ice fishing. Better safe than sorry, I wore my life jacket under my parka on the miserable eight-hour “vacation” with Ed and a few others to a frozen lake with tiny houses that had no restrooms or windows.

I was granted my very own dwelling with a stinky propane heater and a five-gallon pail for a recliner. It was an immensely enjoyable outing, sitting in the dark by myself, watching the bottom of the lake through a hole while waiting for supper to swim by. A grand time for self-reflection and plotting wicked revenge, to be sure.

Remembering back to past Christmas seasons, I fondly recall the all-out brawls over the Sears toy catalogs when they arrived in the mail around the first week in December. It seems that, in a previous life, we had an entire Thanksgiving season all to ourselves without dodging tinsel and reindeer in the department store aisles.

There were no ponies listed in the Sears catalog. Dick and Jane had a dog named Spot. So did we, but they lived in town and had a pony. We lived on a farm with no pony, and I hated Dick and Jane for that!

One rather bleak Christmas morning, Dad gave Mom a most special gift: a shotgun. I remember her looking at the long box and shaking it a few times, all excited to unwrap her gift. Maybe she thought it was the newest-fangled version of a sewing machine—who knows?—but when Dad looked into the double barrels with Mom on the trigger end, he knew that Santa was not coming to his side of the tree for a very long time!

One stipulation that Mom and Dad had for a few years was that us kids were to put on a nativity play before opening our presents.

Practicing each afternoon for a week or so before Christmas Eve, we sometimes drew blood on each other before the day was over. Bandaged up and limping around, we knew “the play must go on” as the boys dreamed of Red Ryder BB guns, my sisters’ hopes were for Barbie dolls, and my great vision was the Johnny West ranch set with Jane West as the heroine.

We six little angels arranged our last play to be just that—the last one—and it worked so well that we all got along great the entire practice week. With great anticipation, we asked the audience (parents and grandparents) to wait in a separate room as we prepared the stage for our grand finale while the youngest brother ushered in the props. Giggling behind the curtain and ready to put the opera to shame, we were dressed in the finest nativity clothing that Mom’s old dresses would allow.

By the piano sat the dog, peeking around from behind the couch was a calf, and on top of the kitchen table stood a goat with a north star duct-taped to the top of his head. Clucking around the living room were half of the chickens from the coop, and none of the critters were following their script. Our entire cast was immediately excused from the stage, and our acting days were happily over. We did receive a sitting ovation from Grandpa as he slapped his knee and laughed at Mom who dragged the calf outside by its ears.

Grandma was very much less impressed and made a new stipulation that, from then on, all children would eat lutefisk on Christmas Eve before opening gifts. Stage fright turned into table fright for a few years…