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Sometimes, when I least expect it, a memory will reach out and grab me. And these are usually nice, somewhat comforting. But it is during the nighttime (and even on rare occasions, during the day) that my dreams not only reach out and grab me, but pierce my heart as well.
Christmas used to always be an enchanting time for me. As a child, the expectations of what was to come Christmas morning was no greater than the sight of sparkly, colorful packages and decorations lining the top shelves of Newberry's or Woolworth's as I would trail behind my oldest sister, or mother or father, gazing up at the top shelves that seemed to be 30 feet high in those days. I never wondered how they managed to get these decorations up so high--because after all it was Christmas--and that meant it was magic. Nothing was impossible.
Today's hotspot for Christmastime would have been, by all standards, a nightmare 40 years ago during my youth. The thought of even suggesting that 1965's summertime hotspot would be no more, to be replaced by a "super-store" of the future, would be met with gasps of denial.
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