Growing up, Christmas to me always began with the annual trek to my aunt and uncle's small farm on Christmas eve. My brothers and I would begrudgingly struggle into our proper Christmas attire — shirts with stiff collars that scratched our necks and ties which our father cinched so tightly blood flow would not return to our brains for days to follow.

After passing inspection we'd all load into the car, being careful not to forget mom's "famous" Jell-O salad — you remember the kind, red Jell-O with mystery chunks of something which resembled fruit and a healthy slathering of whipped cream on top. Making our way to the farm over ice covered roads, we'd entertain our parents with unrelenting backseat fighting, complaints, and bickering.

Dad would be oblivious to our antics — eyes transfixed on the slick roads and a mighty death grip on the steering wheel of our trusty Ford which sped along at a blistering pace of six miles per hour. Mom of course would be full of Christmas cheer and eager to cram as much of it down our throats as possible before arriving at our destination. By the time we'd finally make the farm, the backseat would resemble a war-zone, dad would be completely frazzled from the drive, and mom would be contemplating adoption agencies for her unruly children who still lacked even one ounce of Christmas spirit despite her best efforts over the long journey.

Piling out of the car and starting for the house, invariably someone would have to return to the trusty Ford and retrieve mom's Jell-O salad, which by that time had suffered unspeakable acts of torture and more resembled a horror movie prop than any side-dish. I think it would be fair to say by that point we all were silently wondering to ourselves why we endured this particular Christmas tradition? Then without fail something mysterious and wonderful would happen.

Rushing inside to escape the cold winter's air, we would be suddenly overtaken by the smells and sounds of Christmas. Removing our coats and boots we'd make our way from the back door through the kitchen and, in the process, our noses would be filled with smells so wonderful words fail to describe. (My aunt had a way in the kitchen that would put even Martha Stewart to shame.)

Moving past the huge dining room table that was always beautifully decorated and picture perfect, we would enter the main room filled with our family and friends — some of whom we hadn't seen since Christmas eve the year before. Warm embraces, smiles, laughter, and exchanges of "Merry Christmas" would ensue. A fat Christmas tree always stood in the corner with lots of brightly wrapped presents underneath. Christmas lights twinkled and holiday music played. No matter what ill feelings we may have had not two minutes before would magically be gone — replaced by a sense belonging, warmth, love, and holiday cheer.

I think back to those Christmas eves long ago with fondness and longing. I think of those who are no longer with us and those whom I haven't seen in years. I remember the stories my granddad shared with us kids by the fire and the rose scented perfume my grandmother wore. I see the youthful faces of my parents laughing and talking with friends and family. I remember the wonderful dinners my aunt always made and those delicious homemade pickles she canned. I remember how that old farmhouse reminded me of a picture from a Christmas card, and how my uncle always made us feel especially welcome.

Now hundreds of miles separate me from that old farmhouse and this year my wife and I and our two young children will spend Christmas by ourselves. There will be no long drive to endure, no scratchy collars or strangling ties. No kids fighting in the backseat and no mystery Jell-O to hide on our plates. I'm beginning to wonder how I will know when Christmas begins this year? I only hope my wife and I will be able to create as good and lasting of memories for our children as I hold so dear from my own childhood.

Here's to Christmas memories — those we have lived and those yet to be.