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This is the sixth chapter of a holiday series that will run for seven days and end on Christmas.

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Grandma Nolan was up long before the sun. The tuna hot dish was just coming out of the oven when the others began to stir and make their way to the chrome percolator for a hot cup of Folgers to wake them and warm them. Everyone had been toast under the mounds of quilts and blankets, but once freed from the handiwork of generations of women before them, their blood felt thin. The coffee was the only thing keeping their spirits above freezing.

Before long, everyone had taken their three-minute turn in the bathroom and layered up against the blowing snow outside. Grandma was pulling the bread out of the oven and wrapping it in foil when Bobby and Betz burst through the front door.

“Let’s get this show on the road! The snow will all be melted if we don’t hurry!” Bobby shouted, heading straight for the coffee pot.

Kristen, Kyle, and Kim looked at their parents. Being lifelong residents of Fort Stockton, they weren’t sure if that was really how snow worked.

Grandma fetched a cardboard box from the basement, lined it with quilts, and carefully packed the bread, the foil-wrapped hot dish, and a Thermos full of coffee. A plate of Christmas cookies went on top, then paper plates, cups, and another layer of quilts. Dana watched, both bewildered and impressed.

“Better keep moving,” she whispered to Doug. “Stay still long enough and you’ll be wrapped in an old quilt and placed in a cardboard box.”

“I think they breed down there,” Doug said. “The quilts. They’re everywhere.”

Each grandchild received a plate of flapjacks, link sausages, and fresh fruit arranged to look like a Christmas scene—the sausages forming little reindeer, a cherry on the nose of the one in front. A bowl of Chocolate Malt-O-Meal topped it off.

“Have to start the day with a hearty breakfast, especially in this cold,” Grandma said, a one-woman assembly line.

Ann and Don were the last to emerge, Don leading the way to the kitchen in boxer shorts that had fit better sometime during the Reagan administration. Dana went to find him a quilt. Stan appeared from upstairs, poured a cup of coffee without saying a word, and trudged back to the attic.

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Kristen, Kyle, and Kim watched the morning unfold from their seats, fork in hand. Not having been around extended family before, they weren’t sure what to make of it all. Still, they were looking forward to a day with Bobby and Betz—and to being free of their parents for once.

The quilted box of food and a small ice chest of milk bottles were loaded into the Country Squire, with more quilts piled on top. Once the kids were bundled and seated, Bobby gunned the big Ford wagon down the slick street, tires spinning, kids squealing all the way.

“Do we even know where he’s taking our kids—and our new car?” Dana asked, watching through the picture window.

“Pretty sure he’ll stay in Michigan,” Doug said.

She would’ve replied, but out of the corner of her eye, she caught Don scratching himself in a way that should’ve remained private—then grabbing a few sausage links with the same hand. When he saw Dana watching, he smiled and put two back.

“Just coffee for me,” she told Grandma.

Doug, Stan, and Don left next, hoping to get to Tony’s Hardware early. Dana had never seen so much flannel in one place as the trio piled into the odd-looking Rambler wagon and headed toward Hazel Park. They didn’t know it yet, but it would take four trips to get the right materials—Stan’s “expertise” notwithstanding. Doug found it strange that, after eight years at Tony’s, Stan didn’t introduce them to a single employee. Well, he understood not introducing Don.

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Meanwhile, Dana, Ann, and Grandma wedged themselves into the Mustang to head to the mall. Dana got behind the wheel—the only one who knew how to drive a stick, though it had been years. Grandma rode shotgun for her back. Ann, in the backseat with her knees under her chin, looked like she’d been folded for storage.

“You sure you know how to drive this thing?” Ann asked.

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“It’s like riding a bike,” Dana said, shoving the shifter into first. The gears protested before the Boss 429 launched down the street like a rocket. Grandma grabbed her back. Ann grabbed her stomach. It was an interesting trip.

Dana dropped them at the grand mall entrance, right in front of the Salvation Army bell ringer, so there’d be no witnesses as she tried to park the flame-red Mustang. Three blocks later, having finally found a wide-enough space, she climbed out into the cold. Her ears, fingers, and toes had gone numb by the time she made it back to the entrance.
“I’ll never cuss the Texas heat again,” she muttered.

The brood in the Country Squire had reached Alpine Valley—snow-covered hills and the promise of adventure. Bobby’s buddy owned a small cabin at the bottom of a winding, icy road. Used to driving the Mustang instead of a wagon full of kids, Bobby misjudged the hill’s slick grade. Halfway down, he pumped the brakes frantically until the Squire skidded sideways, hit three trash cans, and buried its front fender into a snowbank—guided into place by a helpful pine tree.

The kids shrieked, not from fear, but sheer delight. Little Kim had been holding a bottle of milk, which let go mid-crash, splattering across Betz’s sweater and the loop carpet.
No one cared about the Ford’s condition. Betz giggled. Bobby shrugged, smiled, and climbed out to assess the damage.

“It’s drivable!” he shouted. “Probably gonna need some help getting it unburied!”

The kids and Betz unloaded provisions while Bobby unlashed sleds and saucers from the roof rack. At the cabin, he found the key hidden in the porch light. Kyle looked back at the dented Ford and said, “Dad’s gonna shit.”

His cousins stared, wide-eyed, waiting for lightning. When none came, they laughed for the first time since arriving in Michigan.

“Probably so,” Bobby said. “He’ll get over it. It’s Christmas.”

Kyle wondered how someone only five years older could already be a god.

Inside, Betz and the kids unloaded food while Bobby built a fire in the stone fireplace. Kyle slipped into the small bathroom to relieve himself. The door hadn’t latched, and through the gap he saw Betz peel off her milk-soaked sweater. She turned, unclasped her bra, and laid it neatly on the bed before pulling on a thick fisherman’s sweater. Kyle stood frozen—guilty, dazzled, and forever changed. It was the sort of moment that would stay with him long after the Mustang was dust.

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The afternoon that followed was remembered by everyone else for more wholesome reasons—sledding down hills, warming by the fire, drinking cocoa, and eating Grandma’s hot dish with crushed potato chips on top. By late afternoon, Bobby called the number on a note by the phone labeled “SNOWPLOW.”

“Twenty minutes,” he said after hanging up. “Maybe half an hour.”

They gathered by the fireplace, watching the flames fade. Bobby poked at the coals, the sparks catching Betz’s eyes. The symbolism wasn’t lost on Kyle.

Forty minutes later, a yellow Frandee Sno-Shu rumbled to a stop outside. The driver chained the Ford’s bumper and tugged. The snowbank refused at first but finally surrendered the wagon with a metallic groan. The second pull slightly bent the bumper—“Hardly noticeable,” Bobby told himself. The Ford fishtailed up the hill like a fish on ice until it reached the main road.

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Back home, Grandma was back in her kitchen—relieved to have survived the Mustang ride and vowing never to enter one again. She was making lasagna, garden salad, garlic bread, and cherry pies, fretting that it still might not be enough.

The repairs had gone surprisingly well. Stan and Doug worked the main floor, Don the basement. Don took more snack breaks than either cared to count, but the work got done before the Squire returned. The brothers even shared stories about their father—his old Sunliner, their favorite meals, and childhood memories that had gone unspoken for years. Doug decided maybe the clogged toilet was a blessing in disguise.

Upstairs, Dana told Doug what she’d learned at the mall. “Don’s been out of work. They’re struggling. She probably would’ve moved back to Ferndale if she hadn’t gotten pregnant.”

Doug sighed. Perry Como’s White Christmas drifted up from the Magnavox. “No idea why she married him. Would’ve understood if she left. But there’s a reason she got pregnant and stayed. There’s always a reason.”

The grandkids ate downstairs on TV trays, watching A Charlie Brown Christmas on the black-and-white set. The adults gathered shoulder to shoulder around the kitchen table. Even with Don’s seconds, there was plenty.

When dinner was done, Stan didn’t disappear upstairs. Instead, he stood beside his mother at the sink, drying dishes as she washed. They looked out the kitchen window at the softly falling snow and said nothing.

In the living room, the others broke out the cards—21 Card Rummy, laughter filling the house. The neighbor’s Christmas lights flickered on, reflecting across the snowdrifts. Grandma Nolan thought how lucky she was to have all her children home for Christmas—and how much she wished her husband could see it.

She handed Stan the last pot to dry. He turned toward the window, squinting into the snow, and said,
“Doug, what happened to the front of your new Ford?”

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