Christmas was, for me, a clear, cold night.
I grew up in a small Midwestern town during the 50s and 60s. There was never a better place or time to grow up. Of that I was certain. And my perfect childhood was never more perfect than at Christmas. I had a Peter Billingsley, Christmas Story Christmas every year. I was that chubby little kid with the horn rimmed glasses and nerdy clothes with the three buckle snow boots who wished for and got the Red Ryder BB gun on his ninth Christmas.