Books.

Ever since 1982, I have received a book from my parents for Christmas. Every year, without fail, my mother picks out a book each for me and my sister and gives them to us before Christmas. It is one of the things I look forward to most of all about the Christmas season, both receiving the book and pulling out the old ones to love on once a year. They smells so good, like old paper. I wish I could bottle up the smell of books sitting in a Rubbermaid box for a year. It is a smell that puts my heart at ease and never fails to make me feel "home".

This year, my mother sent my books home with me. We separated out the ones belonging to me and Caroline and I brought my stack of them home to the Yellow House. I sat on the floor in our living room, opening each one and reading the notes inscribed on each of the first pages. I am so grateful that my mom thought to start this tradition when we were young. It is so lovely to be able to look back and see how old I was when I received each book and to see the evolution of story I received the older I became. They are somewhat a repository for memory: the purple Crayon dot I drew on each page of my first Christmas book because I was too scared to have a full-on scribble fit or the year my sister learned to write her name and claimed each book as her own with a red magic marker. Really, it's like visiting with old pals that happen to smell of books and contain my parents' and grandparents' handwriting.

my first book. caroline's red magic marker.

my favorite page from my first Christmas book.

my granny's handwriting.

for a few years we thought we lost this one. it found its way back somehow.

a note from dad.

a well-worn, taped together copy of the best christmas pageant ever.

older books. sedaris. capote.

the note from mom inside of holidays on ice.