Here's a copy of this week's print column, an ode I penned several years agao as a salute to my mother, who so dearly loved Christmas.
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By Phil Heron, Times Editor
This column first appeared several years ago as a tribute to my mother, who held Christmas traditions in the highest regard. She passed those beliefs along to her son.

To my mother, Christmas was a state of mind. But make no mistake, to her there was a right way and wrong way to celebrate the season.

At the time I first wrote these words, a few years ago, Alzheimer’s and dementia had begun stealing my mother’s treasured Christmas memories. She imparted these rites to me. I, in turn, am trying to do the same with my kids. It is my sincere hope that all of you will do the same.

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She no longer remembers the white house on the corner she took such care to decorate each year. For her, Christmas was about nothing if not tradition. She placed a single, clear candle in each window. On the front door would be a wreath adorned with a red bow and illuminated by a spotlight. Around the lamppost she would wrap live garland (heaven help anyone who suggested artificial).

Inside she would carefully unpack the boxes where she stored her decorations, recreating her special look year after year. Then there was the precious box that contained the addresses she used for her Christmas cards. To her the holiday was all about tradition, about marking another year, about family and friends.

There was a comforting familiarity about the holiday, one she built by establishing a routine and sticking with it year after year.

Now the father of two teens, I am today astounded at the lengths she went to in order to preserve her sense of the holiday. That meant there would be no tree in the house until Christmas morning. No hint of any gifts, either. Today I marvel at how exhausting it must have been for her and my father (who I don’t think was nearly as big a fan of these traditions) to uphold their yearly ritual. Their heads were no doubt hitting the pillow about the time we were waking up, eager to head downstairs to see what Santa had left.

There was Christmas Eve Mass at midnight (not the late-afternoon variety we celebrate today.) Santa always left a few “big” items unwrapped to dazzle the eyes of a child who had just raced down the steps. Also piled around the tree would be our other booty, all of which had magically appeared since bedtime the night before. I remember clearly the ecstasy of that first Christmas morning glance each year.

My mother no longer remembers the house she spent 46 years decorating each Christmas. She doesn’t even remember the apartment she was in last year.

In truth, there are days I’m not even sure she remembers me. This will be mom’s first Christmas in a nursing home. Each week I visit and ask her questions I know that she can’t answer. I ask her if she likes the way the nursing home is decorated and if she remembers the special way she celebrated each year.

The dementia and Alzheimer’s that have robbed her of her memories have left her no less happy.

When I visit, some members of the staff greet me by saying, “You must be here to see Sweet Pea.” They describe her as the happiest person in the building.

I like to sit and talk to her about the traditions she so clearly instilled in me. When I ask her if she remembers, she always says, “Oh, sure.”

As a father, I am trying to instill a sense of tradition in my children, who often don’t share my sense of being “imbued” with the holiday spirit. That’s why I chuckled last week when, during a discussion of our annual Christmas Eve dinner, my wife suggested maybe we change the menu.

The kids were horrified. They insisted we do the same thing we have done every year. They are more like me than they care to admit.

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Once again this year, one new tradition I started a few years ago will be absent. I will not sit beside my mother and carefully recount my visions of Christmas past. But the Christmas traditions she held so dear live on in her son. And in his children. And, I hope, in yours.

Merry Christmas, Mom. Happy holidays, readers.

Philip E. Heron is editor of the Daily Times. Call him at (610) 622-8818. E-mail him at editor@delcotimes.com