When I was much, much younger, and that was a long, long time ago, because I have always been as old as I am now--life was lived at a different pace.  For one thng, we lived in black and white and often the contrast between those colors was muted.  I remember in black and white and subtle shades of gray, in light contrast, or deep moody shadows; kodachrome was no more a reality then than it is now.

 Christmas time always makes me a bit nostalgic for those slow-paced holidays when we lanquished near an open fire, made designs with our fingers in the window frost, ate ourselves into sugar oblivian, "watched" shows on the radio, or looked through the Sears catalog and circled toys or other items we knew we were unlikely to get. In retrospect, wanting things is always has always been for me a bit more exciting than owning them.  Even envy has its hint of sweetness.

I remember one time specifically:  It was that twilight space between Thanksgiving and Christmas when most dreams and fanticies occur.  Brother and I had been aggrevating each other incessantly or looking for new and clever ways to entertain ourselves.  Mother had become quite frustrated with us.  Any outburst was rewarded with a threat that Santa Claus would NOT come to our house.  

It had altered between snowing and freezing rain for several days.  The ground was a firm sheet of ice that supported one's weight yet crackled menacingly whenver we dared to risk walking somewhere.  Brother and I  were playing shoulder tag, our noses touching the window panes in our living room when we noticed an old man with a bag attached to a stick slung over his shoulders. He was making his way through the neighborhood.  We could trace his progress across one neighbor's yard to another and see where his feet had repeatedly broken through the crust of snow and ice leaving sloughs in his wake as if his legs were pushing him along.  He had moved from 

When it was evident that he was heading our way, we hollered to mother that some strange person was coming to our door.  When he finally knocked upon our door and mother was about to answer it, brother and I threw our birthday firecrackers into the fireplace.   I guess the old man thought that someone was shooting at hiim because he took off running.  Mother later said that she had never seen one man move so fast.  She also said that she recognized him . . . that it was Santa Clause and that we would get no presents that year because we had frightened him away.