By Vicki Bahr 
We were barely home from a rainy week at the beach in early September when I felt the insistent pull of the Halloween bins stashed neatly away in the basement. I started slowly, just pulling a few autumn decorations out and carrying them upstairs when my husband was otherwise occupied, and he didn’t even notice at first.
But, of course, once I started, there was no going back, and autumn pumpkins scattered on a shelf became jack-o-lanterns before long. Then the vampire with the maniacal scream earned his batteries, as did the haunted carnival house of fun, the giant pumpkin in the front bedroom window, and the shrieking, color-changing, motion-sensor ghost.
Before very long, though, I noticed I wasn’t bothering to light the haunted houses or turn the switch to start the cackling witch stirring her evil brew. When John questioned if I wanted him to plug the power strip into the wall one night, I said, “No, it’s just us.” And there was the truth in it.
The decorations were never the real fun; it was the grandkids’ excited faces and hearing them tease their siblings and cousins to go into the room where the motion sensor started the scary music and screams from the haunted house picture hanging on the bedroom wall.
When our 4-year-old twin grandsons made it to our house that Sunday afternoon in early October, and their 9-year-old brother escorted them from room to room, the house came alive. Brady refused to go into the bathroom until I removed the giant hairy spider at the edge of the tub, and Ellis added a toy Fisher Price animal to the haunted barn that I didn’t even notice until later.
The boys chased each other with flashing plastic ghosts and stood outside on the deck making faces with flashlights under their chins as all of us in the dining room roared with laughter at their antics.
And now, the house is decorated for Christmas just as early. The tree is up, and I can change the lights so they blink in colors or leave them all white. The radio is tuned in to the all-Christmas, all-the-time music station. The stuffed snowman on the sled that plays “Jingle Bells” with the little dog who shakes the bells on his collar at the end of the song is waiting to have his hand pressed so he can start his yearly routine. And the Santa Claus who welcomes everyone at our doorstep is ready and waiting.
Ceramic Christmas houses and toy stores and churches and bakeries and skating ponds are plugged in and waiting, and battery-operated, time-sensitive candles light the bedroom windows precisely at 6 p.m.
But the holiday décor is happiest accompanied by nine grandchildren and their parents, all hugging and laughing and catching up with the latest family news and replaying every birthday and holiday, exclaiming over perfect Christmas presents and the best cookies and lasagna and cheese dip they’ve ever tasted.
The twins should be in our bedroom looking into the living room windows of the lighted ceramic “Grandma’s House,” wondering aloud to their cousins where the grandma of “Grandma’s House” is amongst the fireplace and lit Christmas tree surrounded by colorfully wrapped presents.
The answer is always the same: Grandma’s just outside the living room, watching as everyone arrives and makes their way up the snow-covered front steps and rings the doorbell of the decorated house. She knows the house won’t truly be alive until the family arrives, no matter how beautiful the decorations or the presents are. Because the holidays are only holidays with family.
by Stacy Bronec 
by Jenny Albers 
