Courtesy Photo In this 1951 picture, Mom Evelyn Dziesinski holds a 5-year-old Connie Dziesinski (now Stafford) under the Christmas tree.

Memories of Christmas on my grandparents’ farm in Maple Ridge don’t seem to be growing dim with time, but all the brighter. Even though I’m older than my grandparents were when my memories were created, this particular time in the late 1950s is as fresh as new snow.

A late December snow storm in the region made travel treacherous, and it was Christmas Eve. Our family tradition included everyone gathering at the 180-acre farm for dinner and gift-giving. That meant four of my grandparents’ grown children, their spouses and children, were about to attempt driving from town 10 miles into the countryside.

While this would be a great enough challenge, getting down the long driveway could be expected to also include a lot of sweaty shoveling and pushing at the rears of cars. It’s for this reason Grandpa suggested leaving cars out along the side of the road and he’d bring the stone boat to us with the tractor. A stone boat is a flat wooden sled that was normally drawn across a plowed field so that stones could be removed.

I, my mom and our gifts were piled on the rough conveyance and towed to the farmhouse. Dad followed the slow-moving parade by walking in the tractor-tire print. While this was all an extra chore to the adults, it was a great adventure for a child.

The snow was a blanket of fluff that sparkled and glittered in the light from all the vehicles, and rivaled the night sky full of stars. My jaw hung open as I looked up and all around. The stone boat eventually floated across the soft snow into the front yard of the house. Grandpa had shoveled a narrow path through a drift that crested like a wave in front of the porch. The porch was half covered by a wooden walled wind break, and we all stamped our feet upon the steps and through the unused summer kitchen.

As we opened the door of the main house, a wall of warm smells wrapped around us … roast chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, and something with the strong scent of chocolate. Cake, perhaps?

We shed our coats to hang on the hall tree and went through to the living room where an even greater spectacle awaited. The Christmas tree stood at the far end of the large room, anchored in its stand with its star brushing the ceiling. German glass ornaments hung on the boughs and bright festive lights as large as a man’s thumb made the white spruce glow. There were a few tiny candles scattered about among the decorations, and the final touch was a cascade of lead icicles. But what made my child’s heart warm were the tumble of brightly wrapped gifts strewn casually on the worn linoleum beneath the tree. I was certain Grandma provided each grandchild with new underwear and handmade mittens, for that was her own tradition.

After dinner, each family member found a seat in a rocker, an old horsehair sofa or even the floor, and the distribution of gifts began. Such pandemonium! Laughter rang out and children shrieked, while torn wrapping paper created piles like fallen leaves all across the living room floor.

It soon became time to make the reverse trip back to the car for our journey to town, and I was normally fast asleep before reaching the township line.

My grandparents eventually moved themselves to a house in town, and for years we continued to gather in an effort to keep those old traditions alive. But, as the family grew and disbursed to far-flung locations, it became impractical to recreate those early Christmas days. Now, each one of us has a family of our own and we are making new memories and traditions. However, there are always flashes of scenes and scents that transport us, just for an instant, back to that old farmhouse at the end of a long snowy driveway.

Connie Stafford is a former writer for The Alpena News, and lives in Maple Ridge Township. The farm in the story belonged to Connie’s grandparents, Eva and Leonard Stepanski.