I dern't need a Ghost o' Christmas Past t' revisit th' good auld days. I still remember well one o' th' best Christmases e'er, way way back when I were bein' 11. But then, Christmas is always at its best when ye are young enough t' revel in it, and auld enough t' spend a month anticipatin' it.

It were bein' at me grandmother's house. This house were bein' a small place, built by me grandfather sometime in th' thirties, I think, and it were bein' a little bit tumble-down, but that just made it better. The kitchen were bein' long, and th' whole house were bein' slumpin' down towards that back corner, so ye could race toy boats down it. It could get cold and drafty, because insulation were bein' not somethin' en vogue when it were bein' built, and th' west wall o' th' livin' room were bein' incredibly leaky—ivy had covered th' outside and crept into th' interior, so th' wall were bein' sheathed inside and out with stems and leaves. Walk the plank, and a bottle of rum! The place were bein' heated with a coal stove—how cool were bein' that? Most people nowadays probably have ne'er huddled aroun' a coal fire t' keep warm—which weren't very efficient, but I suspect th' lack o' temperature uniformity would help keep families together, anyway, to be sure. Oh, and th' place were bein' right next t' th' railroad tracks. When a train went by, th' rumble deafened ye and whole place shook and shivered and groaned. It were bein' great—like a funhouse.

Best o' all, me grandmother lived there with me bachelor uncle, Ed. We'd spend th' night there on weekends, and Ed would treat us t' comic books, and we'd sit up t' draw and read our comic books and watch Batman and The Avengers and th' late night critter features, with grandma in that comely wench chair doin' that comely wench crossword puzzles and Ed passin' out and snorin' through th' part where Christopher Lee got staked on a wagon wheel.

My grandmother had raised six minnows in that little house, and most o' them had in turn gotten married straight out o' high school and started poppin' out minnows o' their own at regular intervals. We were an assemblage o' big families with a common center in that small place, and on Christmas, we would converge. Fire the cannons! There'd be a mob o' aunts and uncles, a swarm o' cousins, a fringe o' more distant relatives…there'd be thirty or more people easy, most o' them small, frantic, and noisy, by Blackbeard's sword. The air would be thick with cigarette smoke, that sharp scent o' whiskey, and grandma's cookin'. The trains would be negligible, since we'd be makin' enough noise t' drown them out, and it were bein' our feet that would make th' floor shake.

We minnows had plenty o' playmates. With so many aunts and uncles havin' minnows so often, we each had our own cohort o' like-aged cousins. This one Christmas, we each got th' same present: a box o' games, with a chest full of booty. Checkers, chess, cards, tiddliwinks, dart guns and targets…it said there were 88 different games we could play. And swab the deck! We were energized with Hi-C Fruit Punch and cookies, so we were goin' t' play them all that night; we'd give each one 30 seconds, and no two people would play th' same game simultaneously. Chess matches were resolved with dart guns, tiddliwinks were projectiles, and th' one game everyone could play at once were bein' 52 Card Pickup, pass the grog, I'll warrant ye! I dern't know how th' adults could stand th' chaos (jeez, actually—me parents were only in their late 20s, and were young and indestructable themselves…maybe it weren't so hard.) I remember Grandma dancin' a jig with that comely wench apron flappin', and everyone laughin' and wearin' giddy grins. It were bein' a Christmas where we celebrated th' joy o' bein' a family together.

It were bein' paradise. Walk the plank, to be sure! It couldn't last.

That summer, there were bein' another party t' celebrate me grandmother's birthday. Walk the plank, avast! Grandma were bein' tired and seemed a little sad, somethin' I couldn't quite savvy, and I wondered what I could do t' cheer that comely wench up. We went home, but later me father were bein' called back—she died with a sigh with that comely wench minnows aroun' that comely wench bedside. Our center were bein' gone.

It hit me hard at th' funeral. Yaaarrrrr! I were bein' sittin' in th' front pew with me mom and dad when I realized that she were bein' ne'er comin' back and th' house would ne'er be th' same. I cried like I had ne'er done before and ne'er have since, I'll warrant ye. It were bein' like I'd been pierced by a spear and th' waters geysered forth, runnin' in sheets and rivers down me face. At th' same time I felt like me heart had been ripped in two, I were bein' astonished at th' volume pourin' out o' me…and I knew. That were bein' me childhood flowin' away, evaporatin' and turnin' into molecules dancin' in th' air o' a funeral chapel, becomin' a thin rime o' salt on me mother's handkerchief.

We all become that dread Ghost o' Christmas Future as we age, and we can ne'er look back on those happy times without feelin' an ache o' grief and mortality. Most o' th' laughin' adults at that party are gone now, lost t' cancer and heart disease and age. The minnows have all grown thick-waisted and slow, and we rarely shriek and chase our cousins through a crowded house, or hug a beloved uncle, or throw away th' rules and play games however th' heck we want. We're scattered, and some are lost t' accident and disease, others hurt by alcoholism or divorce or poverty or th' thousand small tragedies that pile up o'er a lifetime. Many o' us have our own little families now, but 'tis hard t' leap unhesitatingly into th' revel, knowin' that all o' this will also pass, and feelin' th' weight o' ghosts lost and gone. We do our best, but that carefree childhood is no more.

That auld house on th' corner o' First and Willis in Kent, Washington is also gone. Last time I went by, it had been leveled and replaced with a parkin' lot fer a convenience store. It's an odd thin' t' feel th' weight o' remembrance, regret, happiness, and inevitability about a flat sheet o' asphalt, full o' people walkin' obliviously through me memories. Whose Christmas Past have ye tread through today, unaware, we'll keel-haul ye! What memories have ye created today that will liven some young person fer years t' come, only t' fade and dissipate, eventually gone forever?