by Eva Marie Everson @Everson_Author
I can’t help it; this time of year, my mind slips back to my childhood, to Christmas tunes playing on Mother’s stereo—Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams—the tinsel on our tree dripping from branches like fine strands of lace, the chilly, inviting air outside, the counting down the days until Jolly Ole Saint Nick finally came. Seems to me that for so many years, my baby brother and I wore what we called “footy pajamas.” I can still hear the sound they made as our feet slapped against the hardwood floors of our home. Pitty-pat, pitty-pat, pitty-pat . . .
