My best Christmas gift this year was spending the holiday with Beth’s and Sara’s families at the ski house on Donner Lake. No one is more blessed than I when it comes to family. Our only disappointment this year was the fact that John’s family was unable to join us. They were at a resort in Montana, planning to join us shortly after Christmas, when Lai An became ill with Covid. Fortunately, it appears to be a mild case.
The McCances accepted the difficult challenge of finding a Christmas tree, two days before Christmas. Every place they stopped, they were advised that all the trees had been sold; their best bet was to try their luck in Reno. They noticed that each of the business establishments in downtown Truckee had a small lavishly decorated tree outside its front door. Except one! In front of a bar (Grinch’ Haven? Scrooge’s Lair?) they spotted a forlorn, unadorned tree. Ian was drafted to go inside and investigate. When a grouchy bartender inquired, “Would you like a beer?”, Ian responded “No, but could I buy the tree out front?”. “Buy it? I’d be happy to have it out of my sight. It’s yours.” Three hours later it was proudly occupying the prime corner of the Great Room in the ski house, festooned with lights and homemade ornaments. Sounds like a candidate for next year’s Christmas novelty song.
Donner Lake is a classic alpine lake, formed by a glacier perhaps as recently as the last Ice Age (10,000 years ago). When the glacier retreated, it left behind a massive pile of debris, forming a terminal moraine that served as a dam across the valley the glacier had carved. The result is a lovely lake, two and three-quarter miles long and half mile wide, 235 feet deep, between a pair of steep granite ridges. The lake runs roughly east and west; the ski house is on the northern shore. Both ridges are covered with lodge pole pine and fir trees, interrupted occasionally where vacation homes have been built. The summer elevation of the lake is 5936 feet above sea level; in the winter it is drawn down eight feet to provide additional storage when the snow melts in the Spring.
From the ski house the view of the southern ridge is spectacular – a panorama of towering evergreens against a snowy white backdrop, perfectly reflected on the lake’s mirror smooth surface. Close to the south shoreline one can occasionally see cars on US Route 40. Sometimes called “America’s Main Street”, at its peak Route 40 stretched 3,157 miles connecting Atlantic City, New Jersey and San Francisco, California. Halfway up the ridge are the eastbound lanes of I-80, with its westbound lanes even higher. High on our (northern ridge) run the busy main line tracks of the Union Pacific Railroad, following the right-of-way of the original (Central Pacific) transcontinental railway. Once a day an Amtrak passenger train sneaks through in each direction, between the numerous freight trains.
Wild life on the lake in the winter is limited to the occasional merganser or grebe braving the cold water to harvest small fish. This year we were treated to a flock of about three dozen tundra swans. Sara spotted them swimming in a group about a quarter of a mile from our vantage point. Eventually they took off (“in birdie-like precision”), circled three times to gain elevation, and then headed west, toward Donner Pass. Sara’s cell-phone video of their departure is a real “keeper”.
I suspect that our family makes a bigger deal out of Christmas than most other folks. I think it all began with my father, with the enthusiastic support of my mother. The process of distributing and opening gifts takes up most of Christmas mornings. It begins with stockings “hung by the chimney with care”, filled with candy and small toys. When our children were small, my mother would make a trek to the bank and acquire silver dollars for their stockings. Once the stockings have been distributed, our attention passes to the pile of wrapped gifts under the tree. I have always been impressed that our emphasis is on giving, rather than receiving. It is remarkable how quickly this emphasis is picked up by even the youngest children. The thoughtfulness that goes into selecting specific gifts for specific individuals is evident.
Christmas cookies are a major part of our family tradition. This year Sara sent out a call for help when she realized she didn’t have a particular cookie cutter – a large wreath with a bow superposed on front of it. Somehow she and Beth had managed to lose it. There was no possibility that I was involved; nonetheless I agreed to search the deepest recesses of my kitchen. Lo and behold, I found it, and saved the day. Our cookies are simple sugar cookies, baked in accordance with my mother’s recipe. When our children were small, she would visit us a few days before Christmas and supervise the baking and decorating. The sight of our dining room table completely covered with expertly decorated Santas, wreathes, Christmas trees, etc. is one of my favorite memories. The last Christmas my wife was alive, three-year-old Lai An helped her make cookies. That is her only memory of her grand-mother.
Let’s not forget the background for all this celebration. Two weeks ago I attended the annual Christmas Service of Lessons and Carols at Old St. Luke’s Church, a traditional Anglican service featuring a Liturgical Choir and the 1823 Joseph Harvey pipe organ. It was refreshing to hear the Christmas story recounted in such an environment; I found myself wishing my grandchildren had shared the experience with me. Many bad things have occurred in the ensuing twenty centuries, some of them in the name of religion, but the basic Christmas message of hope for all mankind rings as true today as it did then.