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Untangling Christmas
    Sunday, December 5, 1920
    Dear Ben,
    About an hour ago, Aunt handed me this little book and told me she wants me to write the story of your first Christmas because you will be too young to remember it.
    I asked her why she did not write it herself. She said that I was the only one in the family who was a true writer, and that she was too busy preparing all the Christmas foods and presents and decorations we would need to help us have a happy holiday in spite of everything.
    I will begin by introducing us. You are my half BROTHER, because we have the same father, and you are my COUSIN because your mother is also my aunt. Mother and Aunt were twins, like Fanny and me and Jo and Jemma. Mother died when Theo, your big brother, was born, and Aunt stayed with us tobring us up. Then, years later, Father and Aunt got married and finally, Benjamin, you were born. It sounds complicated, and I even had a hand in making it happen. But all that matters right now is that I am your sister Fee, you are my brother Ben, and you will have your first birthday on Boxing Day.
    I have always loved Christmas. I think I have loved it even better than Fan’s and my birthday. There is so much more to it and everybody is included. But this year it seems tangled. Christmas is not supposed to be all snarled up, filled with unhappiness and difficulty, but that is how this coming one feels to me.
    It is as though I got out our box of decorations, filled to the brim with spools of bright ribbon and blown-glass bulbs and shining tinsel, but when I lifted off the lid, I found everything had grown faded and frayed. Maybe explaining it that way sounds foolish. But it is just how it seems. I feel as though I am about to burst out crying. But I must do no such thing. This book is not supposed to be filled with mournful moans. It is meant to tell you about your first birthday.
    Ben, Aunt must truly like my writing. Otherwise she would not ask me to do this. This thought just lit a fat spark of joy inside me and almost banished my bad mood. I do love writing. Perhaps writing this Birthday Book for you will be fun, after all. I will begin tomorrow. Ignore this first bit. It doesn’t count.
    Monday, December 6, 1920
    Dear Ben,
    I am going to begin even though I am feeling down in the dumps again. It is very hard for me to write when I am in this state. I just want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head and block out the world and everyone in it. I wonder if Aunt guesses I feel grumpy, gloomy and glum. Probably. She has always been able to see inside me.
    Usually when December comes I bounce about, full of joy and excitement. I love choosing presents and giving them, and getting them too, of course. I love the carols and the special foods and reading Christmas stories. Theo helps by counting down the days. The Christmas before our sister Jemma died, he actually counted the hours at the end.
    Jemma died of the Spanish Flu two years ago. It was just before Christmas and we had a hard time celebrating. We did our best for Theo, though. He was too little to understand our grief. Last year we all went to Grandy and Grandma’s farm the day before Christmas Eve and did not leave until Boxing Day morning. Being away made everything different and easier somehow.
    Then the minute we walked in our door, Aunt said she thought maybe Father should call the doctor. Youwere not due until February, Ben, so nobody had given you a thought. But you were in a hurry and you were born at eight o’clock that very evening. I remember staring at you in amazement. I had never seen a human being so small and yet so special. Nobody could feel sad after you came. We were all too busy. Father said you must have known we needed you sooner than we planned.
    But this year we will be home. And not only will we be missing Jemma terribly, but Jo is going to be away too. She and her friend Carrie agreed to help put on a Christmas shindig for poor families. Personally, I