Christmas Eve at Twin Spruce Hollow

Consecrated nights. Snow mounds silent in muted moonlight. White pine boughs bristle with icicles over Twin Spruce Hollow pond ~ firmly frozen, skated over, struck with bladed plectrums ~ lucid accents ring silver through whooping pewter echoes of crack-the-whip. From an indeterminable distance amid black walnut woods I hear the hoot owl’s sonorous song, how der do hoo hoo. Wild fox eyes glow between sinister shadows, but I do not fear the night: for sleigh bells hang on the farmhouse door and a golden light from the toasty kitchen casts a warm welcome across snow drifts, how der do hoo hoo. Redolent oak smoke spirals from chimney tops and the last batch of sugar cookies has just been pulled from the oven. When the muffled groan of the hoot owl taking wing sounds like a tempest brewing in the forest, I do not fear the night for I know I will hear my dad’s melodious response to the owl’s cry. How der do hoo hoo? With an impudent grin he will reply, Great, fantastic, never been better. and I will know all is alright in the night. Stockings are hung by the chimney with care and the tree, a Norwegian spruce cut from the back hill, is strung with bubble lights. Outside, Dad trimmed the holly bush a sparkling white then positioned red and green floodlights as a jovial greeting for all who venture down the gravel driveway, how der do hoo hoo. One lambent stripe of emerald light shines through my bedroom window, over the quilt, on to my cheek, a soft glow like a father’s lullaby of love and I do not fear the night.