This story is dedicated to the memory of Peso Del Oro, the best damn quarter horse ever. It is also dedicated to John Sutherland, a man who understands the beauty of winter and who radiates Gold.

Finally, I would also like to thank John A. for reminding me of the beauty of living in the memories and words of one's own story…

* * *

Trace looked into yet another cardboard box and made a horrible face. "Tim, you've got to be kidding. You can't be serious. We are NOT using this. It’s…it’s…not right!"

I peered into the box, smelling the musty odor rising into my parents’ family room. I kept my composure. The box contained numerous ancient holiday decorations, some of which dated from my childhood. I tried to weaken Trace’s defenses by using my best "Oh c'mon, where's your Christmas spirit?" grin. Like that was going to work. Trace wasn't buying it.

"Uh uh. No way. We are not using THAT!" He pulled a tattered decoration out of the box for emphasis. It was a faded silver glass ball, covered with patchy glitter where it wasn’t oxidized to a dirty black. A burgundy band of tin circled its middle. It wasn’t old enough to be considered antique or even classic.

"Tim, it's not Halloween. We are not trying to scare people here. No self-respecting fag would ever decorate with something like …this …" Trace was right, of course. But for as long as I could remember, this ornament, with its tired imperfections, was part of the Anderson family Christmas.

Silver glitter fell from the decoration and we both followed the sparkling dust down to the wooden floor. I looked up and met his eyes. His face contorted in an expression that appeared half pout, half pissed, he remained incredulous that anyone would keep such a horrendous atrocity, much less consider decorating with it.

"Trace, we have to use it. You know what my mom is like. Besides we are not decorating this place for "self respecting homosexuals. We’re decorating it for my fundamentalist Christian parents. Remember my motto, "If it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing?" This is not about less is better. It's about more! More! More! More! Since we got roped into doing this, do it, we will. When the Mrs. Rev. Cheryln and Mr. Rev. Arnold L. Anderson walk into this room, I want them to feel the Holy Spirit, the pre-rapture, and ‘Joy to the World’ all at once!"

I raised my hands revival style for emphasis.

The ornament dangled, lifeless and hideous from Trace’s left hand.

"OK. What-ever. But I am hiding it, do you hear me? Hiding it!" The ornament disappeared, buried in the center of the tree.

That behind us, we continued. Ornament after ornament, garland after garland, emerged from box after box. The artificial tree, complete with the artificial pine cones, artificial song birds, and even artificial snow, stood tall in the living room.

Another plastic Christmas tree robbed a corner in the family room. That tree was a sure win candidate for the Charlie Brown Tree Award. Standing naked and ugly, huge holes appeared in the foliage, making it look as if branches were missing. Unfortunately, the tree was complete. It resembled the world’s largest toilet bowl cleaner. Trace's disgusted reaction went undisguised upon his inspection at final assembly. "Oh my God, you poor thing. Someone just needs to put you out of your misery."

I explained to him that my mother refused to part with the old fake tree, despite the fact that it was at least twenty years past its intended life span. It was our job to give the ancient girl her pride back. Gently forming her branches, pulling, and twisting them into shape, I realized that we had our own version of "old growth" right there in the family room.

"What-ever !" Trace smirked.

Eventually the old tree came to life, covered in Christmas lights, dolled up in garland and buried under tons of ornaments. Once decorated, the old became new and the tree glittered, spun, and sparkled her magic throughout the room. As Trace and I completed our work, I found my mom's most obnoxious collection of Christmas records. Cranking the stereo full volume, I echoed the deep male voice, "It’s the most WONDERFUL time of the YEAR!…"

Trace whirled and froze, showcasing the most intense frown I'd ever seen. Unmoved, underwhelmed, he just didn’t have the Christmas spirit. Yet I knew most of his "bah humbug" was for my benefit. Together we made the yin and yang of holiday hype. I overdid Christmas while he mimicked minimalism.

Gawking in disbelief after discovering another disturbing and tasteless tribute to the season, he finally asked, "Is there nothing that your family won't do"

It wasn’t really a question. He already knew the answer. But despite that troubling reality, deep down he was a good sport. Sometimes hysterical laughter overtook him as we continued decorating. Other times he would groan. Most of the time he was just plain disgusted. But I knew he was having one hell of a good time being disgusted.

Ignoring his response, I sang happily as one joyful Christmas carol after another filled the room. Eventually, during a break to change scratchy holiday albums, something wonderful happened. I actually heard Trace humming "Do You Hear What I Hear?"

Unpacking box after box, memory after memory took its place alongside each ornament dangling from the tree. Small glittered treasures representing this or that Christmas competed for attention. Then one special ornament caught my gaze. A small saddle danced out of the branches. In the twinkling of an eye the background music became the foreground. Pretty soon Trace wasn't with me anymore.

Suddenly, I was ten again.

* * *

Lying underneath the Christmas tree, looking up into the tinseled branches, I visualized my wish list. I didn't want clothes. I didn't want Lite Brite or Mr. Potatohead or a Kung Fu GI Joe. I simply wanted the new Matchbox City. The one I'd seen in the Sears and Roebuck catalogue. The one with its own freeway, parking garage, and "scenic country scene."

Focusing all my energy on the happiness such a present would provide, I savored the thought of what an entirely new city could mean to the residents of Timmytown. I just knew nothing would make me happier. Of course, the city came complete with the 25 car, "Action Metropolis Matchbox Vehicle Set." And if I was lucky, maybe Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Tom would add a Hot Wheels set, too.

Sprawled on the bright orange shag carpet of our living room, I stared up into the tree. Above me, homemade ornaments waltzed among the store-bought. I could barely make out the star on top. I prayed, "Dear Jesus, I have been really good. Please let me get the Matchbox City. Please!"

It was a wondrous moment, my cowboy boots protruded from under the tree, the lights twinkling above. Wondrous, that is, until my mother shattered the peace.

"What are you two up to?" came the voice from my parents’ bedroom where her last minute wrapping was underway.

I could hear my brother and sister giggling from the upstairs hallway.

"You two quit looking under the door!" mom screamed at her two evil offspring. "I can see you! IF you don't quit, Santa won’t bring you your presents."

I held my breath and wished fate would finally catch up with my dastardly little brother. All my life, all I had ever wanted was a cool older brother. I fantasized about an older brother. How could God do this to me? Instead I had HIM; evil, drooling, and always getting me into trouble. I could think of nothing better than Santa actually bypassing the little Satan. Although Santa and Satan had the same letters, even as a youngster I knew they were worlds apart. I was on Santa's side. My brother inhabited the land of the other.

"If you two don't get away from the door, there will be no Christmas! I am going to count to ten. One! Two! Three!" Mom was losing it. Jamie and Kellie were defiantly counting along with her.

"One-giggle giggle". "Two-giggle giggle. Three-giggle giggle giggle."

"Arnie!" Mom called for reinforcements from my father. But Dad didn’t answer. He too was frantic, busy finishing his sermon. Christmas Eve at the Anderson’s was looking pretty scary.

Upstairs the door flew open and I heard my mother's patience expire. "Where" (heavy breathing) is your (pant) brother?" Mom asked, referring of course to me.

I froze.

No! This could not be. Certainly not NOW! For weeks I'd avoided my brother. If he went left, I went right. I purposely chose seats far from him in church. I did not respond when baited. My brother, fallen angel among fallen angels, always testing every spare bit of resolve, had to this point not broken through my defenses.

I was so close. I held my breath.

. "Tim, come get your brother and sister and watch them!" Mom was pleading. I knew that tone in her voice. Desperate. Ready to snap at any minute.

I lay still beneath the Christmas tree watching the lights spin and dance. I could will this moment to last. I knew I could. The power of the mind triumphs over all the temptations of a difficult situation. I could pretend I wasn't there or that I couldn't hear her. Anything to avoid answering her.

"Timothy JOHN Anderson, NOW! " Mom was definitely losing it.

I rolled out from under the tree, ran up the stairs and stared at my brother and sister. Jamie sneered, "Mom says you have to play with us."

Then, on silent cue, they both squatted down and resumed peering under the bedroom door. Looking down at them, he seven and she this side of five, they looked innocent, precious and incapable of evil. This was their most dangerous and deceptive disguise. For all their cuteness, I knew of the countless horrible acts traceable to my brother, with Kellie as his accomplice.

I wanted them dead.

But I restrained myself. I was too close to victory to lose the battle now. Beginning with Thanksgiving, I'd decided that in order to fulfill the whole not naughty, but very nice prerequisite for maximum gift reception, I had to tolerate my little brother at least until Christmas morning. For weeks I'd resisted launching well-deserved horse manure his direction. I'd looked the other way when he brought some of my hot wheels to school and tried to trade them to other kids. I'd forgone pouring orange juice on his Cap’n Crunch. I'd been angelic.

Even now I would not pull his hair or throw him off the stairs. But my New Year's resolution was another story. Simply put, it involved his painful death.

I had to do something. I was too dang close to let a couple hours keep me from the big payoff. "Hey, let’s go see what Grandma is doing," I suggested in fake friendliness.

"Nuh uh." My brother shook his head. "She's napping and told us that if we wanted Santa to come, we had to let her sleep."

He bent his head under the door, once again sneaking a glimpse into Mom's room. My sister followed suit. I grabbed them both and drug them away.

"MOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYY!!!" Jamie screamed. "Tim is hitting me!"

The door flew open and I was caught with one little monster in each hand, dragging them across the carpet. "Young man, what are you doing to your brother and sister?" Mom was really on the edge now. To make things worse, the two little spawns of darkness I held began wailing as if I'd been pounding them into smithereens.

This simply could not be happening. Led into this trap, I saw no way out. Glaring at my brother, the source of each and every difficult moment in my life, I witnessed everything for what it was. What it would always be. I let them both go.

"Timothy John Anderson, do we need to send you to your room for the rest of the night? Now take your brother and sister and go play NICELY with them."

"Yeah, NICELY!" my brother mimicked as soon as she'd shut the door.

In one second, I knew my gift wishes were toast. I'd lost the battle, the whole "he's checking his list, checking it twice…gonna find out whose naughty and nice…" spiel. I'd be lucky if I got one stinking Hot Wheels car now. And to think I'd let my brother live all these weeks for nothing.

* * *

"Uh Tim? Hello Tim? Anybody home? Trace stood in front of me wildly waving his arm. I looked at him blankly.

"This? What is this? Tell me this is not going on the tree?"

Hurling back into the present, I apologized. "Oh sorry. I was just thinking about doing the stairwell. Uh that? Well Trace, that is the angel for the top of the "good" tree. Don't you think it resembles a toss up between a Vegas showgirl and a really bad drag queen?" Trace looked dumbfounded at the comparison. "Only a drag queen would think of putting fiberoptics and sequins at the ends of her wings."

Trace giggled. He was definitely getting into the ridiculous spirit of things.

"Are you ready for the next project? Ready for the stairwell? My mom always puts that plastic garland shit on it. Have you seen it? I think it’s in one of those boxes over there."

Trace rummaged around in a large box while I continued messing with the drag queen angel. Eventually he found the garland and held it as if it were contagious. Anticipating his protest, I jumped in before he could open his mouth.

"Don't say anything…part of the garland melted from using the wrong Christmas lights with it. And the cats ate some of the balls off it or something like that. Mention throwing it away to my mom and it's an instant death sentence. And if we don't use the garland, she will have a fit." Turning my attention to another carton, I pulled some large red plastic bows out of an old apple box and held them up.

"What do you think?" I asked and immediately answered for him, "Yep. Perfect!"

"What are you doing? We can't…you can't…. No! Tim, you are not using those! My God, they are vinyl! Bright red shiny vinyl!" He was incredulous.

"Trace, we have to use them. These bows have a history. I once used them to decorate the radiator grille of the Kenworth. They've been in almost every state in the union."

"Trust me Tim, they look like it."

"Mom loves them…besides they hide the melted spots on the garland."

"They hide the stairs too. And they look far worse than the melted…." He paused, trying to collect himself, then changed tactics. "Besides, they're huge and hideous. You've got to be kidding me. Say your kidding me, Tim. Putting old semi truck radiator bows on your parents’ stairwell…" He watched me straighten out the bows. "Please. Say you are just messing with me, because, right now I think you're not well. You can't really be serious."

"Serious as a heart attack! Mom’s gonna melt like Chocolate when she sees this house."

"I think if she is sane, she is going to kill you."

* * *

Sitting on the couch, I surveyed my handiwork. For the last hour I 'd arranged and rearranged the presents. The biggest boxes went under the smaller ones, each stacked at haphazard angles, as if they'd fallen on one another like dominoes. From my angle, the room seemed full of presents and this year the bounty would be better than ever.

Looking outside, I stared at the frosted panes which reflected the Christmas lights taped around the window frame. I could smell my mother's Chex mix baking in the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Grandma stiffly making her way down the stairs, a hand on the railing.

The mood in our house temporarily changed when Grandma and Grandpa walked in the door for their holiday visit. Fear and uncertainty disappeared, replaced by an optimism that settled over everything, casting a gold and promising glow. My father, walking in the door from work, was no longer defeated and exhausted. Speaking with my grandfather, Dad boasted about the implementation of his plans for our small horse ranch and his greatly talented artistic wife. The euphoria of the moment made us believers as well and we all went along with him, smiling and pretending. Transformation, no matter how temporary, was a welcome respite from reality.

My grandparents’ arrival two days earlier was a grand entrance, complemented with a camper stuffed full of presents. Most of the gifts they bore were for us kids; treasures straight off our Santa lists, magically transferred to us from him via them.

Their arrival also signaled another ritual of Christmas: witnessing my grandfather's annual explosion. Orin Lopeman could not back up his travel trailer to save his life. He spent hours trying to negotiate his trailer up the driveway while we hinted that if he didn't quit his cussing, Santa might pass him by. Our advice was neither timely nor appreciated. Fortunately, just before he launched into orbit ever year, Grandma magically materialized just in the nick of time. She would usher us back into the house with an unmistakable stern look back toward her husband, sheltering us from his cuss words. Most of them. Some still came seeping through the walls of the house, accompanied by the sound of locking trailer brakes, slamming doors, and gunned engines. Eventually under my grandmother's strong encouragement, Grandpa gave up on the backing exercise. When my father returned home, he would back the trailer skillfully in position on his first attempt. Perfect and lined up just right. A feat which only served to infuriate my grandfather more.

At the Anderson's, Christmas was a study in imperfection. I didn't know it at the time but the practiced imitation of seasonal utopia is what made it so memorable. Although things were a mess, we could act like they weren't. In hindsight, these pretend moments of normalcy made everything that much more surreal and delicious. Prior to my grandparents' magical appearance, the floor under the tree always seemed pretty empty. Then, voilà! Instant bounty! I knew that without them, it would be a spare Christmas.

Earlier in the week, I'd come home from school and found that someone had anonymously left a sack of groceries by our front door. I knew the sound of my mother’s late night crying, the humiliation of collecting pop cans at horse shows so we could eat at McDonalds. I had this unsettled awareness, but no way to be able to do anything about it. For the moment, all those concerns were banished now that Grandma and Grandpa were here.

Identifying by sight the packages that were mine, especially the ones I guessed probably contained the things that I'd always wanted, I sat on the sofa and listened to the sounds of the house. Upstairs my brother and sister had finally tired of ruining everyone's life. Instead, they were playing "Beauty Salon." Jamie was systematically ruining the hair on one of Kellie’s dolls.

Downstairs, Grandpa Orin was reading one of his gun magazines in the kitchen as my father explained to him how the Arabian horses we were raising would pay for his children's college education.

Grandma came into the living room and sat next to me.

"Timbo, Timbo, watcha gonna do-e o?" she sang. She held me in a hug. "The tree is beautiful this year. Did you help decorate it?"

Grabbing her cool hand, I asked if they had a lot of snow in Spokane this year. I also asked if I could maybe just go home with them when Christmas was over. She said they didn't have much snow yet, but it was just plain cold. Then she added, "Binco would sure miss you if you left him." Smiling she looked down at me and with a twinkle in her blue Montana eyes. "Have you been doing a lot of riding Tim? Are we gonna get to watch you at the county fair again this summer?"

"I can't Grandma. It's too muddy to ride. And Binco bucks."

Binco was my first horse, a monstrous thoroughbred palomino. Unbeknownst to us, he’d served duty as a roughstock bucking horse before we acquired him. Most of the time he was a good gelding. Nearly 20 years old, he didn't act spirited until after being cooped up in a stall for a couple weeks due to the endless Oregon rain. Once released, all hell broke loose.

Binco stood 17 ½ hands tall. Getting on him was challenging enough. I would stand him next to a fence, straddle the rails and climb until I could get up on the top rail, then jump up, hoisting myself onto his back. Even under the best of conditions, it was a tough mount. And this time of year, with mud overwhelming everything, Binco had no desire to stand still in the mucky ooze long enough to let me climb the fence so I could jump onto his back.

On rare sunny days, my father "rode him down" until he was too tired to buck. After the horse was exhausted then my father let me ride Binco. I explained all of this to my grandmother. She nodded. Billie Lopeman knew her horses.

"Timbo that is a big horse for a little guy like you. Bet it takes a lot to keep old Binco's head up, to prevent him from bucking. He’s bigger than most of the horses ridden by cowboys I know. I bet you're gonna be a real good rider someday."

I giggled. I didn't think I was much of a cowboy. My hat blew off in the wind and my cowboy boots made my calves raw. I'd rather watch the Brady Bunch than most westerns, much to grandpa Orin's frustration.

"So what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?" she asked, her gray blonde hair catching the glow from the Christmas Tree.

"Grandma! You already know. I sent you a list."

"You did? Well it must have gotten lost in the mail! Isn't that the bunk?" Leaning forward, I looked at her twinkling eyes. She had to be kidding. She just had to.

Getting up, Grandma Billie winked. "I suppose I should go help your mother and keep your grandfather from killing your dad."

Lying down on the couch, I watched the tree’s blinking lights and thought about Christmas. I didn't really care what I got. Well maybe a little, but mostly I didn't. I was grateful for my grandparents’ presence and that for awhile everything seemed OK and under control.

Christmas was the only day of the whole year where everyone got along. Kinda like a brief view of paradise that kept you wishing for it all year long. It was the one day where I could actually visualize my little brother making it to adulthood. And my sister NOT ending up in a maximum-security women's prison because of him.

Our family Christmas followed an unwavering pattern. Once the Chex mix came out of the oven, everyone gathered in the living room around the tree. Jamie and Kellie would perform some sort of embarrassing entertainment that they'd lifted straight off of the Lawrence Welk show. A pageant or reenactment, with a touch of dramatic figure skating thrown in for good measure. Usually it was an interpretation of the baby Jesus story, with one of my sister’s "Baby Wet Me Not" dolls substituting for the Christ child. The poor doll would lay lifeless on a sofa cushion manger while my brother "Joseph" whispered her lines for her.

At the end of this performance, and after several milked standing ovations, the trapped audience appealed to get on with the next part of our Christmas routine. Dad was in charge of handing out the presents, never opening a single one of his own. My brother and sister attacked each gift as if unwrapping was a timed event. My mother kept track of who got what, while the smiles on the faces of my grandparents seemed to make up for so many of their own unhappy years and bleak holidays.

I never wanted these moments to end. It wasn't the boxes or the ribbons, the bows or the pretty decorated papers flying everywhere. It wasn't the bounty of the gifts. But rather this feeling that God came down amongst us with a giant "Time Out" sign. Everyone exhaled. Living for just a brief second, in this magical moment, I didn't want to open my own treasures because then the moment would end. More than anything, I just wanted the feeling that filled our home to last.

Finally, after everyone else, my father unwrapped his presents. Mom would be in trouble for the money she spent. Sucking it up, she'd tell "Bah Humbug Pastor Dad" that he needed new clothes, especially for Christmas Eve service.

For a kid who barely endured weekly church most of the time, Christmas Eve service was a notable exception, an asterisk marking paradise. Come a few minutes prior to midnight we would load up the pickup truck and head into town. Darkened country roads came alive with neighbors, and by the time we reached town, the highway imitated morning rush hour. A silent parade whisked through decorated downtown streets, red taillights marking our collective late night pilgrimage to our small town’s houses of worship.

Christmas Eve meant standing room only at Faith Lutheran. Bigger than Easter, the once a year crowd joined the too many times in one Sunday crowd. Christmas lights lit the altar and the advent candles hung high over the communion railings. Candles passed out to young and old alike grew warm, causing the soft white wax to bend and twist in eager hands. Peace on earth and good will to men? On Christmas Eve I believed such a thing could exist. Even among Lutherans.

The flush-cheeked choir sang wonderful joyous carols. December 24 was the one service of the year when we arrived on time and Mom didn't complain about the choir. Standing on triangular risers, the choir formed a human Christmas tree. They were dwarfed by the real tree standing at the front of the sanctuary. Twinkling with white lights and gold emblazoned ornaments, the church Christmas tree seemed exotic and rich. Passing overflowing offering plates, everyone seemed positioned toward a collision with joy.

Following a special message for the children and Dad’s Christmas eve sermon for the rest of us, the triumph of the church year arrived. Concluding the service, the ushers purposefully violated the fire codes and extinguished the sanctuary lights. As one, the worshippers plunged into near darkness. Silently my father lit a candle from one of the already lit advent candles. Turning to the ushers, he lit their candles. In the darkness and hush, the light spread. Initially our only focal point was the sparkling tree and the candles on the altar. Haunting and glorious, they dimly illuminated the room. Slowly the flickering light multiplied from usher to usher. Down each pew, parishioner to parishioner, one candle lit another. Some figures bent while others rose to their toes. In simple stillness, united one by one in small flickering flame, the congregation blazed undivided. Dancing reflections shimmered on the ceiling, glanced across the windows, and twinkled on the eyeglasses of the choir. The light of those around us reflected back inward. A hundred small flames briefly united a congregation that normally couldn't agree on anything.

Embracing the moment, this fleeting second, this one instance, I watched. If only the evening's goodwill could just extend; this unity placed on layaway to be claimed at a later time. Facing the dancing flames of our candles, we sang "Silent Night" in a harmony and togetherness that only happened on a night like this. I didn’t know then what a gift I'd been given. That years later, on lonely Christmas eves trucking across the west, this would be the memory that brought warmth. As a child, I didn't know how blest I was; that this gift, the experience of being raised in a small farming town, where bright northern stars guarded a troubled collection of souls, would become a treasured memory. Our heavenly light, bouncing back to God, after reflecting off each of us. Our tiny candles sending flames of hope leaping toward heaven.

And only later would I also see the irony of the situation.

For one brief moment each a year, each lit by our own tiny candle, we truly did know a literal interpretation of scripture. We forgot our angst and basked in a miracle of amazing proportions. Instead of looking inward, we looked outward. Golden, and glowing, we participated as a congregation in the miracle of basking in that light. In our unanimous state we could recognize the brighter force of goodwill and let go of our petty concerns. We briefly knew a small glimpse of what we could be. We also saw what He who came to be, truly represented.

Once focused, maybe that small town church finally grasped that our Christianity was more than a collection of singular burning flames. The power of a hundred small, unified candles facing the future was far more than the lingering darkness of the smoldering battles of church politics.

* * *

"Tim!" Mom yelled from the kitchen. "I need your help in here." All thoughts of Christmas Eve past vanished.

"Coming!" Sitting up, I spied a package next to the Christmas tree that still wasn't situated right and bent down to rearrange it.

"Now, Tim! Go get your brother and sister, too."

I found the two of them upstairs playing with Barbie dolls. "C'mon, Mom wants us downstairs. I think it’s almost time!" Dolls flew and they scurried past me, bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Here, help your grandma with the fudge and the Chex mix. Tim watch your sister so she doesn't spill. I'm going to get your father." Then she was gone.

Holding the bowl while my sister poured the Chex mix, I rocked with excitement. My brother arranged fudge on a plate while Grandma Billie supervised. Forming a line, we made our way into the living room and took our positions. My siblings again took their place at the fireplace and prepared our entertainment while I sat on the floor by my grandparents. Midway through "Joy to the World" I noticed the alteration of all my hard work. Something about the tree was different. The arrangement of the packages! Huge new presents had appeared from nowhere!

"Joy to the World the Lord has come, Let heaven and earth please release her king!" Jamie and Kellie, as usual, murdered the lyrics. They sang loud and with way too much joy. They actually looked angelic. For a very brief moment, I could even see a small glimmer of hope that they might just make heaven.

As we munched on Chex mix after the performance, Dad began to distribute the gifts. In no time, wrapping paper filled the room. Both my brother and sister received new dolls. I landed that coveted Matchbox City and the matching vehicle set. Aunt Dorothy even came through with the extra cool Hot Wheels set.

Yet the biggest presents, those that had suddenly appeared, remained untouched. As the chaos died my father looked over and motioned me closer. "Tim, this one is for you."

Looking at the package, I couldn't for the life of me think of what it could be. I'd already received all I'd asked for.

"What is it?" Everyone was watching me. Grandpa and Grandma leaned forward, smiling. They were in on this and whatever "it" was, "it" was some sort of big deal. "Dad,…what is…? It's huge."

I tore into the wrapping.

"Wowwwww!"

I was shocked. As the paper fell to my feet, a new saddle rose out of the brightly colored holiday wrapping. Rawhide Brown, with wonderful scrolls, a low yoke and fancy stitching. I was speechless. I'd never dreamed to ask for a new saddle of my very own. Such a request seemed out of the question. Making do with what we had, I'd been riding on my mom's saddle or riding bareback with my butt sliding all over the place. Leg muscles grew stronger with each stride atop Binco, but with my feet never reaching the stirrups, frustration threatened to block any further progress.

My father suggested, "Let’s go try it on Binco!"

"What about church?" I asked

He smiled. "We've got time."

Everyone bundled up. Grandma put on her black shiny jacket and my mother found coats for the rest of us. Single file we trooped out into the darkness. I quickly grew tired of lugging the saddle and my grandfather rescued me, hoisting it onto his strong shoulders. I followed behind. Kellie rode on my father's shoulders while Mom got the gate at the end of the alley. Entering the pasture, we encountered the dreaded mud and progress grew difficult. Boots became mired and my brother and I quickly overtook the heavier adults. Approaching the barn, I froze. Two strange horse heads appeared looking out from the normally vacant middle stall.

"Dad! Someone's horses got in our barn!" I screamed.

My father surprisingly didn't seem too concerned. Nothing made any sense.

"Really Timbo? Are you sure? Let's get closer. They look like our horses to me."

He had that tone in his voice that gave him away. My father is a horrible liar.

"Dad, those aren't our horses. Look, SEE? They aren't ours!"

The two animals looked out at us through the open top of the Dutch doors. The taller one, a buckskin quarter horse , peered out gently, ears forward. He had a black forelock and a white star on his forehead. His smaller stall mate was a short gray Shetland pony who had to stretch his neck to see over the door.

"Well let's get them out and see what they look like." My father still had that tone to his voice. Opening the stall door, he put a halter on the buckskin, which pranced out of the stall followed by the nervous Shetland pony. Walking up to the buckskin, my grandfather put my new saddle on the muscular quarter horse.

"Tim, this is Peso Del Oro. It means 'Dollar of Gold' in Spanish." Mom's breath turned to mist in the cold Oregon night. "In the summer, his coat turns to gold. He is your Christmas present from your father and I…"

"Mine? You mean…Oh wow! Thank you!"

"Yep. The pony's name is Honeycomb and he's for your little brother to ride.

I stared into Peso’s dark, immense eyes. I could see a determined spirit reflecting back at me. He bobbed his head and blew into my face. His muzzle was soft and dark. While I scratched his solid neck, he turned to look at me again and I imagined all the fun we were going to have together.

Dad broke in. "OK, let’s put them away. We have Christmas Eve services to get ready for."

Putting the pony and the quarter horse back in their middle stall, I closed the bottom of the Dutch door and followed my family back to the house. Halfway up the lane, I turned and looked back through the darkness toward the barn. Peso remained looking out the stall door, ears forward, watching his new partner in crime. He bobbed his head one more time as if to acknowledge me. Turning, I made my way back to the house.

At the time, the enormity of this gift, didn't register. I couldn't see the future or know that Peso would get me into more trouble than I thought possible. I didn't understand that a horse could be equally as strong-willed and stubborn as his master. I also didn't realize that this moment would represent one of the best of my entire life.

The next day would be one of the worst.

* * *

As long as I have owned a horse, I've spoiled them. If I have chocolate, they have chocolate. If I chew gum, they chew gum. Horses are just people trapped in a powerful, beautiful, and more gentle body. Their eyes are larger than ours and they see more. Their ears are greater than ours and they hear more. They swallow the wind and breath nature's fragrance through blowing, quivering nostrils. In my mind, the horse is man's best friend.

When morning arrived, I took my Christmas stocking out to the barn, where I introduced Peso to chocolate, caramel, and sour candies. We shared my bounty. As I sat on the stall door, he lifted his head, sniffing my pockets. Together we chewed Snickers bars with exaggerated motions. I believe this equine sugar high was partially responsible for what happened next.

Jamie eventually joined me in the barn and we haltered up our new horses and decided to take them up to the house. I have no idea what we were thinking. I have even less understanding of what the house held that the barn didn't. Maybe it was an opportunity to show off our new presents or maybe we were going to take my sister for a ride. Like a new toy, the horses just had to be played with and explored. In hindsight, we probably wanted to understand every single aspect of these new animals. Regardless, the decision to migrate from barn to house was one we would later regret.

The pony and the gelding had never been apart. Faced with uncertain surroundings, they became quite spirited. Nervously prancing, they crow hopped and danced around their leads as we guided them out of the barnyard. Our progress up to the house was tentative. Sloshing through mud, each step toward higher ground was a splattering dirty affair.

Every possible version of the events that followed has been debated, explored, and investigated. 25 years later my brother and I are still trying to fix the blame. Jamie blames me. I see the whole disaster as his doing and firmly believe a court of law would most certainly hold him responsible. He lost control of his pony first. To this day, I believe he willed it to happen.

And it happened very fast. That fact is universally accepted.

Somehow that stubborn little Shetland jerked loose of my brother's hold. In years to come, getting that willful little bundle of fur to move beyond a walk would prove maddening. But now, he was faster than any thoroughbred. He tore off as fast as his little legs would gallop, mud flying heavenward. My stunned brother turned to me as I struggled to hold on to a now insane Peso.

"I'm telling Dad!" he shrieked.

I was dumbfounded. His pony was loose and it was my fault?

Peso fought me, rearing up and backing away from the lead. Honeycomb, charging to freedom, spooked the gelding. Trotting around me in circles, he pulled back, testing the lead rope. Then with a whirl, Peso jerked out of my hands and followed the renegade pony. Marking their departure, mud reigned down from the sky in great clods. I chased after the frightened horses but my feet were no longer attached to my boots. Wet cold mud made contact with nerves.

"Dadddddyyyyyy!" Jamie wailed as he ran into the house.

Mud rose around my feet and my hands burned where the lead tore off my skin when Peso bolted. Hearing the thundering sound of hooves growing fainter, I prayed. Why couldn't my dad have witnessed that I didn't let go? That my brother was at fault? Both of us were finished, I just knew it. Christmas good will was definitely over for this year, possibly forever.

"Tim! What happened? Where are the horses? Where are your boots?" Dad was roaring as he ran toward me with my grandfather not far behind.

"Dad, he let Honeycomb go. I tried to hold on but…"

There wasn't time to launch a full-scale investigation or listen to the history of who, what, where, when, and most importantly, why. The flight of the horses was of primary importance. Imagining my beautiful new horse running into a barbed wire fence somewhere or breaking a leg or getting hit by a truck out on the Independence Highway, I was bleeding, muddy, and scared.

My father was just plain furious. Grabbing Jamie, he and Grandpa jumped in the truck and took off in hot pursuit, tracking the escaped horses through recently landscaped yards and across freshly sprouted winter wheat fields. Peso and Honeycomb left a very visible emancipation route. The soft ground succumbed under their hooves leaving small craters marking their stampede.

While anxiously waiting for their return, Grandma Bill tended to my hands and bandaged them. I didn't feel like playing with the new Matchbox City, or lying under the Christmas tree. Every possible scenario flashed through my mind. The horses would never be found, they'd be stolen, or maybe fall off a cliff. Walking out to the barn, I petted the horses that hadn't escaped. But that empty middle stall and lonely new saddle only reminded me of what went missing.

* * *

Trace and I stood outside in the rain and surveying the mass of hopelessly tangled Christmas lights. I sighed. Fifty percent of the strands didn't work and many others were only partially lit halfway down the cord. Icicle lights hung from my parent's gutter illuminating our progress while everywhere else we gazed, there was nothing but a mass of extension cords.

"Tim, this is crazy. How many lights can one yard hold?"

"A lot" I answered. I struggled to free a broken bulb and got shocked in the process. "Ouch! Son of a bitch!"

"Serves you right for not unplugging that first, you dork." Trace grabbed the strand of lights out of my hands. "Here let me see that. I'll just have to do everything for you, otherwise you'll get yourself killed and then I'll be left to deal with your parents.

"Trace, I wouldn't worry about it. My parents seem to be fonder of you right now than they are of me. My mom is gonna emote all over you when they see all you have done. I know you think it's overdone and hideous, but she'll love it." Trace continued working with the strand of lights and seemed to ignore me.

"Ya think?" he finally asked.

"Yeah, I do. I don't just think it. I know." Despite his protests I also knew that he was really enjoying this, and that most of his huffing and puffing was for show.

I grabbed another string of lights and began draping them over the bushes while Trace fussed with the broken bulb.

"You know we shouldn't be mixing these colored ones with the clear ones. It’s not what Martha would do."

Trace kept talking but I was no longer with him. Stringing lights, my mind wandered back to the Christmas that Peso came into my life.

Eventually my father and grandfather found the horses and managed to catch them. Then Grandpa hoisted my Jamie brother onto Honeycomb’s back and the two men led the horses a mile and a half home through the rain. Retrieving the truck later, they spent the rest of the afternoon repairing all the landscape damage.

Over the next few years, Peso and I encountered many challenges. He was fast, and intelligent. Together we dominated the county fair, collecting many blue ribbons for barrel racing, keyhole, Australian Pursuit, and the flag race. He was the only horse I was allowed to have this kind of fun on. Our Arabians were purely for serious show ring competition. I accepted the hideous English riding on Arabians knowing I could cut loose later on the trail with Peso.

Childhood dawned into early adolescence and eventually young adulthood. I grew up with Peso as my best friend. Although dozens of other horses accompanied that transformation, as my family bought, sold, bred, and lost animals, Peso stood guard against such change. When foals were born, it was Peso whose golden head lifted above the stall doors welcoming the new arrivals, nickering a gentle hello.

We got in endless trouble together. When I was grounded, Peso was too. My friends had motocross bikes. I had Peso. Peso didn’t sputter in creeks or stall on steep hills. He was faster in a quarter mile and didn't get flat tires. If he bucked you off, he didn't break. Peso carried those who knew little of riding and he carried those who knew too much

Peso kept us on our toes. Before he agreed to be caught, there was a mandatory game of "chase." A natural cutting horse, he avoided capture while simultaneously herding the other horses. I sometimes thought he was the smarter one among us. He was never willing to be caught until we'd played "chase" long enough.

Because of his antics, I became a fast runner and by the time I was in High School, I ran a five-minute mile. But Peso was always faster. Sometimes I swore that horse laughed at me as he stood at the far end of the pasture, ears forward, lathered up, just as winded as I, but taunting me. Teasing me as I hid the halter behind my back. Begging me for just one more sprint. One more taste of this horse verses human drama until he decided it was time to relent.

Everyone loved Peso. Unless they were trying to catch him.

* * *

"Is everyone ready?" Grandpa asked as climbed in and sat with us in his pickup.

My brother and sister were piled next to me and my grandmother sat squeezed against the opposite pickup truck door. To the left, the surf pounded against the coast and the waves crashed high up onto the rocks. Another infamous winter storm assaulted the Oregon coast and the gray early January dreariness seemed overwhelming. I was just shy of 16. Christmas vacation was over and tomorrow marked a return to school. The camping trip on the Oregon coast had come as a surprise. Overjoyed with the idea, my grandparents leapt at the chance to have their grandkids all to themselves.

Now the walks on the beach chasing their Irish Setter Rusty, the endless songs and my grandfather's horrible jokes neared an end as we made our way back. For a few days we'd forgotten about the sad state of affairs at home. Christmas was a memory, and winter was just getting started. As my grandfather drove down windy US Route 20, the dark coast range surrounded and threatened to swallow us. Approaching Corvallis, I dreaded the return home.

I could smell my grandpa's Stetson cologne and I listened to him hum that "El Paso" song he liked so much. My thoughts ghosted and soon I wasn't with them anymore. I was thinking about the groceries I'd found left again on our doorstep. Wincing, I remembered more nights recently when I'd listened as my mother cried herself to sleep. Money was tight, the horses weren't selling, and my father was working longer hours at church because it was easier to be surrounded with other people's challenges than face the situation at home. The mud was horrible this year and we had more horses than stalls. Peso no longer had his own stall but stood under the shelter of the barn overhang that separated the tack room from the hay room. As we neared home, I visualized Peso, his head bent into another horse's stall, keeping guard as he stood in breezeway.

Our time at the coast had been relatively peaceful and my brother for the most part hadn't gotten into trouble. Of course this peace couldn't last and even my siblings seemed to be reacting to a return to misery. Come this time tomorrow, my grandparents would be on their way back to their own home in Spokane. The future looked bleak indeed.

Now all I wanted to do was get away from everyone. Eagerly, I made a plan. I'd grab a bridle and hop bareback on Peso and go for a ride. No saddle. No bareback pad. Just me, that crazy horse, and whatever mud I wasn't able to brush off. Sometimes his speed and the feeling of those strong muscles helped make life easier. Galloping through a creek or charging across a field, the wind roaring in my ears, seemed to carry problems so far away. A late afternoon winter ride just might be the best way to welcome the New Year. Maybe better times were coming. Maybe.

Arriving home, I helped my grandfather unload the trailer and then grabbed my boots and made my way out to the barn. The horses were locked inside their stalls but there was no Peso standing under the overhang. I walked around the barn but he wasn't to be found. The pastures were empty. The horse trailer was still there, so he wasn't at the vet. I checked the fence lines but they were all standing and intact.

Running back up to the house, I took off my boots and went inside. Sitting next to my mother in the living room, my grandmother had a very sad look on her face. I asked, "Mom, where is Peso?"

She wouldn't look at me. My grandfather, who was standing behind them, turned around, cussed and stormed out of the house yelling something about being tricked.

"Mom?" I waited.

My brother and sister ran downstairs instinctively knowing something was very wrong.

"He's not here anymore, Tim. We had to let him go." She paused, took a deep breath and recollected herself. "We sold him to the people who own the John Deere dealership in town." Turning she looked at her mother with this pleading look. "They promise you can go see him anytime…"

Brightening, as if that would make the news any better my mother added, "You know he has a good home."

Still my mother wouldn't look at me. I looked at my grandmother who was looking at my mother. Anger and betrayal replaced the happiness I'd seen on Grandma Billie's face all week.

The awareness that Peso was gone wouldn't settle. I couldn't believe my ears. "How could you? How…? You have to get him back. You have to!"

"No Tim, we can't get him back. He’s gone." Mom turned and walked upstairs.

Drop-kicked, with ten seconds left in the quarter, I was desperate. Following her, I begged and threatened. She locked herself in her room and I did the same in mine. The Christmas lights outside my window seemed surreal.

I remembered Peso. I saw him running across the pasture, daring me to catch him. I recalled the time he went over backwards on me into the creek and how my parents found him on their front doorstep, drenched and riderless. I could see him standing guard, his head hanging over the gate, pawing at the ground while anticipating another after school round of "chase". Or, waiting for an apple or chocolate or the opportunity to get grounded again after we'd just completed our last sentence. What I couldn't see at the time, was that I would never see him again.

I felt empty and powerless. Everything was the same. But nothing seemed familiar.

* * *

Trace stood in the doorway, surveying the blinding lights of the yard. We'd used everything. The pine trees were lit. The Japanese maple bore color. The shrubs, the walkway, and the doorway all glittered and sparkled in the darkness.

"Finally, we're finished." I rubbed my hands together to warm them.

"Yeah, finally. I never thought we'd be done. Tim your family is seriously…" He stopped and reconsidered. "Well let’s just say they are just too much."

I watched him. He smiled.

As we cleaned up scattered supplies, my parents pulled into the drive. Getting out of the car, my mother beamed. "You guys did a great job. Trace, Tim…It's beautiful!"

They stood for a few seconds admiring the lights that seemed to cover everything. "Is the house done too?"

"You could say that, Mrs. Anderson." Trace quipped.

Following my parents into the house, Mom stopped in the entryway and studied the staircase with the burnt garland and the red vinyl bows. She whirled and looked at us. "I love the stairway. Especially the red bows! You boys will have to help us decorate next Christmas!"

Trace looked at me, rolling his eyes and mouthing an exaggerated, "What-ever!"

I turned so my parents wouldn't witness me busting up.

* * *

Every year during the holidays, I think about that Christmas when Peso first came into my life. It is among my most powerful memories. Such gifts define magic.

For many years I tried to forget about that "other" Christmas. Yet those memories remain as well. Bittersweet.

I never saw Peso again. One day he was the only non Arabian horse at Dayspring Arabians, and the next his place on our farm was empty. Although I know he is long gone, I still long for another ride. Just me and Peso and that charge into reckless escape he represented, especially during difficult times. I remember how it felt to ride him. The allure of his lightning quick speed, his amazing golden beauty, and his wild character. Those memories help me escape to a simple and wonderful time. I was the luckiest kid in the world to have had such a horse for the years that I had him. I remain lucky to this day.

My anger toward my parents for their perceived betrayal lasted for years. Why wasn't I allowed to say goodbye to such a loyal friend? I was shocked and disillusioned that they sent me away just so they could send Peso away while I was gone. As an adult, I now know my parents were not evil people. Their backs were up against the wall. They had mouths to feed, both four legged and two legged. Their dreams were crashing all around them and in desperation they sacrificed one treasure so they could retain others. I do not know what a decision like that must be like, knowing that you have to take away something loved from someone you love. They shed their own tears as Peso was loaded into the trailer and as his frantic, scared whinny echoed down a small country road until it could be heard no more. They had to face the disillusionment of their children. They had to face the anger of their parents. They had to face themselves. To witness their children's disillusionment while facing their own heartbreak must have been a cruelty beyond measure.

Many of the people who rode Peso are also gone now. But, their memories linger. Reclaiming the present on those long drives across the state, ghosted horses and people stampede and thunder together across the windshield horizon. I remember them as one long running image. Wild and free, bold and beautiful, every trail seems just one turn back from now.

I can still see my grandfather as he led Peso back to the farm in the rain on that first Christmas. That’s how I remember them both, the tall Colorado cowboy, leading the gentle winded buckskin horse, both of them walking slowly with their heads down. I can see my Aunt Dorothy and hear her delighted giggles as she sat on Peso's back on warm summer days.

The memories touch the living as well. I can still see my father, walking Peso down the alley of the Linn County fairgrounds. Blue ribbons dance from Peso’s halter and exhausted kids lay sprawled across his back. I hear my mother giggle as Peso rises his head in the air after drinking Diet Coke, his upper lip extended as if he were laughing at all of us. I can still see the men gathered at the feed store, each trying to offer the strongest rope solution, a rope with which to tie the infamous Peso. One he couldn't break.

I can still see….

And that's the point.

Especially during this most uncertain of Christmas seasons, I look back.

The memories tumble forth. Unfortunately, loss is the most certain part of life. Whether our losses are people, things, or animals, everything eventually goes missing, changes, or disappears forever in death.

But something also remains behind.

No one can take away the gift of all those memories. They are forever. Those treasures are the richest gift, immeasurable in their fragrance, colorful beyond description. Our sum total is never our collective loss. Our recollections shouldn't be allowed to grow old with time, but rather they should grow golden with maturity. Like Peso in the summer, growing gold with each passing kiss of the sun. Dancing and vibrant, those reflections carry us stampeding quickly through difficult times. They carry us far from where we are now. And hopefully they set us down gently where we should be. Looking ahead, anticipating the next ride, and celebrating the journey.

Merry Christmas to all.

Especially to my parents.