"Merry semi-pagan, slightly literary, and very commercial Christmas," our father would always announce on Christmas morning, when, long before the midwinter dawn, Eva and I would team up in the hall outside our parents' bedroom. Jittery with excitement, we would plead with them to get up, to come downstairs, to hurry, while they yawned, insisted on donning bathrobes, on washing their faces and brushing their teeth, even--if our father was being particularly infuriating--on making coffee.

After the clutter and laughter of present-opening came the midday dinner we used to take for granted, phone calls from distant relatives, Handel's Messiah issuing triumphantly from the CD player. At some point during the afternoon the four of us would take a walk down the dirt road that ends at our clearing. The brisk air and green forest would clear our senses and our palates, and by the time we reached the bridge and were ready to turn back, our father would have inevitably announced, "This is the real Christmas present, by god--peace and quiet and clean air. No neighbors for four miles, and no town for thirty-two. Thank Buddha, Shiva, Jehovah, and the California Department of Forestry we live at the end of the road!"

Later, after night had fallen and the house was dark except for the glow of bulbs on the Christmas tree, Mother would light the candles of the nativity carousel, and we would spend a quiet moment standing together before it, watching the shepherds, wise men, and angels circle around the little holy family.

"Yep," our father would say, before we all wandered off to nibble at the turkey carcass and cut slivers off the cold plum pudding, "that's the story. Could be better, could be worse. But at least there's a baby at the center of it."

This Christmas there's none of that.

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