Mom always began the sell early. A casual word dropped around Thanksgiving, secret smiles directed my way in early December. Perhaps a few bars of “White Christmas” hummed under her breath. Next, holiday songs would ring through the air and the full-scale sale began.

“Wouldn’t it be fun to go out in the bitter cold in the dark of night to ring peoples’ doorbells, that we may or may not know, and sing?” She didn’t really say that, but that’s what I heard. Caroling wasn’t my kind of thing and she knew it. I dreaded the icy winds, the perilous trek, the repeated songs sung over and over again. But Mom loved it, so each year I found myself in her sights.

“Invite your friends, we’ll make a party of it!” she’d say. Okay, closer, but still no sale. “I’ll drive you around town if you want.” Bett

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