Do you remember the first time you held the world in the palm of your hand? One day when I was 8, my teacher took me aside and said, “You are an excellent reader.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll tell my grandmother you said so. She taught me to read.”

The teacher smiled and said, “I want you to represent our class in the school’s reading contest.”

It sounded important.

“What would I have to do?”

“Just read,” she said. “You’ll be fine. I’ll pick a book and mark pages for you to practice.”

Then she dropped the bomb: The contest would take place the following week in the school cafeteria in front of parents, teachers, administrators and the entire student body — or as my grandmother would say, in front of God and all his angels.

I didn’t sleep that week. The teacher gave me “Blueberries for Sal” by Robert McCloskey, a book about a girl who goes berry picking with her mother and meets a mama bear and her cub. I read it until I knew it by heart.

The evening of the contest, my stepfather had to work at the mill. He’d never learned to read, but liked to brag, he said, that his 8-year-old stepdaughter was in a reading contest. It took me a while to realize he meant me.

My mother left my brothers with a neighbor and we drove to the school. The starch she put in my dress made my neck itch.

“Are you scared?” she said.

“No, ma’am,” I lied.

She had quit school at 15 to marry and have babies, but she placed a high value on reading.

“You’re a good reader,” she said. “Just read. You’ll be fine.”

The cafeteria was packed. Mama found a seat in back and I took my place down in front.

One by one, the readers read. They were good. I hoped they’d never stop. When my turn came, I couldn’t find my mother’s face in the crowd. But I recalled what she and my teacher had told me.

So I did what they said. I just read. When I got to the part where the bears showed up, I looked around the room and realized every eye was watching me, every ear was listening. I had the whole world, it seemed, right in the palm of my hand.

When I reached the page my teacher had marked for me to stop, I read another page. And another. Finally, I gave a quick curtsy and sat down. It was the first time I’d heard applause just for me. Except the day my blind brother clapped when I showed him how to shoot a cap pistol.

I never expected to win that contest. Imagine my surprise when they handed the trophy for First Place — to me.

I don’t know if I’ve told all my grandchildren that story. Even if I have, I’ll tell it again soon.

Last week, Henry, who is 8, was asked to read a few lines for a school assembly. So he invited me to come hear him.

“Are you scared?” I said.

“No, Nana,” he lied.

“You’re a great reader,” I said. “Just read. You’ll be fine.”

And that is what he did.

I wish you could’ve heard him.

That evening, we sat on a bench, Henry and I, watching the sunset and talking.

“How did you feel reading at the assembly today?” I asked.

He thought about it. Then he held out his hand, palm up, and said, “It was wonderful, Nana. All those people were listening to me. I felt like I had the world in the palm of my hand.”

Reading puts the world not only in our palms, but in our hearts and in our souls. It takes us on grand adventures to places we’ve never been and into the minds of people we’ll never meet. It tells us truths that are thousands of years old and lets us pick berries with bears.

Whether we read to ourselves, or to a sleepy toddler, or to a loved one who is dying, or to a roomful of strangers who will suddenly become our friends — reading puts the world in the palm of our hand.

Just read. You’ll be fine.

Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about birthdays. Why?

From the end of December to the middle of February, our big “blended” family celebrates eleven birthdays. The birthday people include my husband and me; three of our five children; three of their spouses; and three of our eight grandchildren.

That’s a lot of cake. Not to mention, cards and presents and dinners and parties. I call it the Birthday Express. It’s quite a ride. Only two more celebrations this week, then the grand finale next week, which happens to be mine. The remaining eight family members were wisely born at other times of year. Some have a whole month to themselves.

Few things are more fun than celebrating the birth of someone you adore. My standard wish (besides “Happy birthday!”) is “I’m so glad you were born!” I started saying that to my kids when they were small and now they say it to me, too.

I love cards that have been handpicked just for me, or handmade by the grandkids with stick figure drawings that make me look skinny, and don’t crack jokes about getting old.

Aside from good wishes and a lot of hugs, I don’t need gifts. When you’ve blown out as many candles as I have over the years, your mark of a great birthday isn’t presents or parties. It’s hearing “Happy birthday!” from the people who love you and getting to take a nap.

But there’s one birthday ritual I try to keep every year. I take a little time to think about my life’s journey, places I’ve been, people I’ve known, things I’ve learned along the way. Then I ask myself this question: What do I know now that I wish I’d known when I was starting out?

Here in random order is my latest list. I wish I’d known:

_ My children would grow up healthy and strong to be people that I like as much as love. Had I known this, I’d have gotten more sleep and less gray hair.

_ We shouldn’t take things so personally. Not everything is about us. We need to give others, and ourselves, a break.

_ Actions are more important than looks. It’s better to be kind than beautiful. Unless you can manage to be both at once.

_ Things change. Count on it. The best we can do is change with them, and pray that we are changing for the better.

_ If you need help, don’t be too proud to ask for it. And if someone needs your help, try not to be too busy to offer it.

_ It’s OK if somebody doesn’t like you. Chances are, they’re not very likeable themselves.

_ Hair is like a child. It has a mind of its own. You can try to change it, try to make it do what you want it to do. But it’s better just to let it be what it is.

_ Say what’s on your heart, but only if you mean it. Some words are better left unspoken. But there are three things that ought to be said often and sincerely: “Thanks.” “I’m sorry.” And “I love you.” And to telemarketers, “Please don’t call me again.”

_ My mother was right about most of the things I was so sure she was wrong about. I wish, not only that I’d known it, but that I had told her so before she died.

_ We don’t need someone to complete us. We can be whole on our own. But if we choose to share our life with someone who is also whole, the sum can be greater than its parts. And that can be a whole lot of fun.

_ Those of us of a certain age shouldn’t fear that a birthday means the end of youth. Age is only a number. Forty (or 50 or 60 or more) is not the end of youth. Thirty was the end. The payoff for aging is getting to stay alive, and maybe, if we’re lucky, getting grandchildren.

_ Finally, the best thing about birthdays is realizing we’ve been blessed to have lived another year and had a chance to keep learning, loving and laughing.

Here’s wishing you a happy birthday whenever it may be. Yes, I’m so glad you were born.

Remember the old joke about war drums in the jungle? A hunter asks a guide, “Should we be worried about those drums?”

And the guide shakes his head and says, “Not until they stop.”

The same goes for children’s questions. It’s exhausting trying to answer them, but we hope they never stop. As parents and grandparents and adults who care for them, we want them to ask whatever’s on their minds.

If they don’t get answers from us, they’ll get them somewhere else, maybe from someone who doesn’t love them as we do.

As a mother, I did not do everything right. Far from it. But I tried to answer my kids’ questions as best I could. If I didn’t know an answer, we’d try to find it together. And if the answer was not to be found (as when our dog died and they wanted to know “why?”) I’d think long and hard, then tell them what I thought.

Children will answer life’s questions for themselves as they grow up. But to do so, they need to hear what others believe, especially the people they love and trust most of all.

My daughter was the “Queen of Why?” When she was 3, she’d follow every answer I offered with yet another “Why?”

One day, I snapped. “Well,” I said, “why do you think?”

So she told me what she thought. And I realized she’d been waiting for me to say the answer she had in mind.

After that, if she asked “Why?” I’d say, “Why do you think?” And she’d tell me. Then she’d go play until she thought of a new question.

She now has her own highly inquisitive 8 year old, plus a classroom of third graders, who constantly bombard her with “why?” And I’m pretty sure she often says, “Why do you think?”

My grandchildren ask questions nonstop. If I don’t know an answer, I tell them to go ask Papa Mark, my husband, a retired editor, who will either (a) know the answer; (b) Google it; or (c) make something up.

But sometimes the questions, simple as they seem, catch me unaware and slip inside closely guarded places in my heart.

“Who is your mom?” asked my granddaughter. Eleanor is 5, trying to make sense of the world. The recent passing of the grandmother of a friend has raised a flurry of questions.

“My mom’s name was Betty,” I said. “She would’ve adored you.”

“Did she die?”

“Yes,” I said. “She was old.”

“My dad’s dad died.”

“I know,” I said. “He was my husband. He got very sick. He would’ve adored you, too.”

She nodded. “And then you married Papa Mark?”

“Yes. And now he adores you. So many people adore you!”

“Your dad died, too? And your grandma and grandpa? Do you miss all of them?” she asked.

I took a moment to breathe.

“Well,” I said, brushing her hair with my fingers, “I miss seeing them. But even if you can’t see someone, you can still love them and know they love you. I keep them in my heart. That’s where I keep you. Where am I when you can’t see me?”

She pointed to her chest and recited the answer I’ve drilled into her and her brothers and cousins since they were born.

“In my heart!”

“That’s right,” I said. “And that’s where I will always be, even if you can’t see me. I want you to remember that, OK?”

“OK,” she said. “Can we get some ice cream?”

Children aren’t the only ones who need to ask questions. Adults need to do it, too. Asking questions keeps us young — in spirit, if not in body. When we stop asking questions, when we think we know all the answers and try to force them on others, we get really old really fast.

I hope to stay young (in spirit, at least) til the cows come home and the creek don’t rise and the dish runs away with the spoon.

Why? I want to hear every question my grandbabes will ask, and shake my head in wonder at their answers.

Long ago — when I should’ve known better, but didn’t realize it would come back to haunt me — I laughed at old people who complained about being busy.

How could they possibly be busy? They were retired. Their kids were grown. Their houses never seemed to get dirty. They hardly even ate anything.

I, on the other hand, was the mother of three children; the wife of a coach; a reporter for a newspaper; and the caretaker for my kids, the house, the laundry, the cooking, the dog, the hamster and the iguana.

In my spare time (ha!) I taught Sunday school, kept score for Little League and hosted weekly potlucks for our church youth group. My kids all played sports. Between their games and their dad’s, I spent more hours sitting on bleachers than sleeping in a bed. I must’ve bathed once in a while, but don’t recall doing so.

Some people move mountains. Not me. I birthed them. Nursed them. Walked the floor with them when they were ill. I watched them grow into human Himalayas and become the most gorgeous mountains I’d ever seen. In those years, I wasn’t just busy. I was insane. And I loved most every minute of it.

That was then. This is now. I don’t laugh at old people any more. Except myself. And my husband. He’s retired. I’m not, but it often looks like I am.

We spend as much time as we can with our grown kids and eight grandkids. When we’re not with them, we read texts and watch videos they send us. My husband plays his bass. I work on my writing. Our house is often a mess. If we had a dog, it would have fleas. And we eat basically all the time.

Some days, we feel busier than ever. Or maybe we’re just slower and everything takes longer.

This weekend, my husband’s son and his wife and their three little ones came to spend a few days with us in our new home, which is half as big as our old one. Downsizing is great for two people, not so much for guests.

But we manage fine. It’s what families do. My grandparents’ house was tiny, and they often hosted their 10 married kids and too many grandkids. My cousin Linda and I slept in the bathtub and the boy cousins would sneak in and turn on the water.

Nobody sleeps in the tub at our house, but our guest room is wall-to-wall-mattresses.

January and February are big birthday months in our family. Yesterday we gathered for a party for 5-year-old Eleanor Rose. It was held at a park where my kids used to play.

I’d not been to that park in years, but it looked much the same. Same swings. Same slides. Same seemingly safe ways for a kid to get hurt.

The biggest change was me. Sitting there watching my grandkids, I recalled seeing my children do all those things. Eleanor’s hair flew like a flag in the wind the way my daughter’s once did. My grandsons ran wild, chasing each other, just like my boys used to do. I still felt the same as I did 30 years ago. Until I tried to stand up.

There are moments in life that fill us with gratitude just to be alive. That was one of mine.

My life isn’t half as busy as it once was, but it’s still full. And I still love most every minute of it.

Everybody seems busy these days. But here’s what I’ve learned: We can be busy with good things or bad — with joyful celebrations or devastating heartaches. Both can be exhausting and stressful. But one lifts us up. The other brings us to our knees. I’ve done both. No doubt, so have you.

Sometimes I complain about being busy when I really ought to be thankful that I’ve got nothing to complain about.

This weekend, I was blessed to be busy with good things.

I hope you were, too.

Most days, my getting-ready- to-go-out routine takes two minutes tops. And that includes finding my keys.

There was a time in my life when I never went out without ironing an outfit and spending hours on my make-up and hair.

It began in my early teens, when I hoped, at least, to turn a few heads. It ended promptly at the age of 23, after my first child was born, and my only real hope was to survive another day.

These days, I feel like the Invisible Woman. I could stand half-naked on a street corner juggling live chickens and I doubt anybody would notice.

Not that I need to worry about being seen. We live out in the country and rarely get uninvited guests. Except buzzards.

One day, while my husband and I were sitting on the patio, I noticed a squadron of turkey vultures circling overhead.

“Maybe I should go put on some makeup,” I said.

My husband didn’t laugh.

“That was a joke,” I snapped.

He just snickered.

Today was no joking matter. I had a lunch date with someone I definitely wanted to impress. Someone who would study me the way a cat studies a gopher. Someone who’d take notice of all the details of how I looked, what I wore, how I smelled and every last word I said.

I was determined to give it my best shot. So I started with a quick shower and a double dose of hair conditioner. My hair has been long most of my life, but recently I felt like a change and whacked it all off.

(Here’s a little tip: When you feel like making a change, give it a few days before you act.)

The upside of my new haircut is it takes half as long to dry. The downside is it makes me look like my mother in her later years, wearing a football helmet.

Not that she’d ever do that. I’m just saying. It’s how I look. So I worked hard with a curling iron to make my hair look a little less football helmety.

The problem with the curling iron is it has a tendency to get slightly hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell. So it not only curls, it singes, and makes my hair smell like fried chicken.

To offset the chicken smell, I used a half can of hairspray and a bottle, give or take, of cologne. My favorite cologne, not that you should care, is called “Amazing Grace.” I like its scent, but mostly I love its name. I need all the grace I can get.

Next, I chose something to wear. I didn’t need to iron it because I realized long ago, if you don’t like to iron, don’t buy things that need ironing. I generally stick to neutrals, shades of gray and black. But today I chose a royal blue blouse. It wouldn’t turn heads, but my lunch date would like it.

Next, I selected jewelry. I’m usually good to go with just my wedding ring (without which I feel strangely naked.) But today I added silver hoops, a long sparkly necklace and the absolute necessity, a Christmas gift from my lunch date: A silver bangle engraved, “Love you all.”

“All” is as much as anybody can possibly love someone. It’s also how much I love her.

Finally, I did my makeup. I’ve been doing makeup so long I could do it in my sleep. And sometimes it looks like I did. But today I took great care to blend everything just so — foundation, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, the works.

Just as I applied a last coat of lipstick, my husband walked by, grinned at me and said, “No buzzards circling you today.”

I’ve had worse compliments.

But the best one came when I picked up my lunch date — my granddaughter, Eleanor Rose, who is turning 5, and was truly resplendent in a pink fairy dress and unicorn headband.

“Nana!” she shouted, tackling me in a choke hold. She checked me out head to toe, then said the magic words: “You look pretty, Nana! And you smell good, too!”

My mother would’ve worn a football helmet to hear that.

How many times in my life have I scratched this table? How many times will I be lucky enough to get to do it again? Those questions crossed my mind tonight as I cleaned up the mess we’d made at dinner.

This mess was even messier than our usual. There were just the two of us, my husband and I, cracking fresh crab and eating it with our fingers.

Earlier today he went to walk with his sister, one of his favorite things to do with one of his favorite people at one of his favorite places, Garland Ranch Regional Park, near our home in Carmel Valley, Calif.

The park includes nearly 3,500 acres of rugged land and steep trails at the northern edge of the Santa Lucia Mountains.

I wish you could see it.

I’ve seen it myself numerous times over the years, especially when my three children were growing up. We’d often picnic there on Sundays after church, hiking the trails, then heading home happy and exhausted.

I love the park’s main rule for visiting: “Take only memories and leave only footprints.” It applies equally well, I think, as a rule for the road of life.

These days, I don’t hike quite as happily as I once did, so today I begged off to work, while my husband and his sister walked and talked.

On his way home, my husband, bless him, stopped at a fish market to pick up a couple of fresh Monterey Bay crabs, all cleaned, cooked and cracked.

I steamed some broccoli, sliced two lemons from a bush that was a housewarming gift from friends, and we were ready to feast on one of the world’s finest and easiest meals.

After dinner, he hauled the shells down to the street for trash pick-up day tomorrow. And I loaded the dishwasher and wiped down that table.

Have you ever taken something for granted — things like people and health and dining room tables — until they suddenly grab you by your collar and say, hey, remember me?

That happened to me tonight. I was wiping the table, polishing it back to a shine, trying to rub out a few of the scratches, when suddenly I saw my face reflected on its surface and recalled a lifetime of memories.

I’ve been cleaning that table, and accidentally scratching it, most of my adult life. It’s 6 ft. long, 3 ft. wide, and built of dark-stained pine from the mountains where I was born.

I bought it with my late husband when we were first married and had it shipped from North Carolina, to California.

From the start, just looking at it made me feel at home. It came with two ladder-back chairs that sit at either end, and two heavy benches that fit along the sides for children and guests.

In addition to serving as a dining table, it has also been a place for homework and projects, potlucks and parties and, oh, so many celebrations.

We refinished it several times over the years. But if you look closely, you can still see a few places where my kids pressed too hard with their pencils.

Now, when our grandkids come to dinner, I love pointing out to them where their parents left their marks long ago.

The next time my husband’s sister (who is also one of my favorite people) and her family are in town, I hope we can all hike in Garland Park together, then come back to our house to feast on crab (or whatever’s in season) on that table. I would like that a lot.

It’s not a very big table, but it still has room for all sorts of new memories. Just looking at it still makes me feel at home.

Someday, when I move on from this life to the next, I’ll pass it along to one of my children … or maybe to one of my grandchildren.

I’ll be taking nothing with me but memories, and leaving behind only footprints — and a lot of scratches on an old pine table.

I’m sitting in room full of strangers, whose feelings at the moment (based on the looks on their faces as they stare at their cell phones) range from total boredom to downright fear.

I wonder what the look on my face tells them about me? I’m waiting for my husband, who moments ago, was rolled away on a gurney to undergo a routine colonoscopy.

“Routine” is an interesting word, isn’t it? Especially when applied to a test that can lead to a diagnosis called “terminal.”

I kissed him goodbye before they rolled him away. He seemed surprisingly calm for a man wearing no underwear. By now, I’m sure he’s been pumped so full of meds that he’s feeling just fine, no worries, no pain.

Too bad they don’t offer those meds to us folks in the waiting room. Waiting is never fun. But it gives you time to think.

That’s what I’m doing. My mind is like a mental Lazy Susan spinning with thoughts, good and bad. I’m trying to pick the best ones and skip the rest. But the bad ones keep coming around. Here they come again:

“What if they find something? What if it’s serious? What if…?”

I shake my head, like a dog trying to rid itself of fleas, and wait for the good thoughts. They take their sweet time, but, whew, here they come again:

“He’ll be fine. No reason to worry. Just believe the best.”

I grab onto the good thoughts and hold on tight. But they’re slick, like they’ve been sprayed with WD-40. The bad thoughts are coated with Gorilla Glue. I look around and wonder if anyone else is thinking about Gorilla Glue and WD-40.

Probably not. We all have our own ways to deal with waiting.

This is not my first rodeo. I’ve waited for lots of medical results for myself and for people I love.

I suspect you have, too.

Is it just me, or do you find it less worrisome to wait for news for yourself than for a loved one? I think what I fear most is not dying, but grieving. When I die, I won’t need to grieve.

Years ago, I waited in a similar waiting room while my first husband was having the same procedure with the same doctor.

I prayed for the best and tried to expect it. But the news that day was not good at all. Four years later, after multiple surgeries and nonstop treatment, my children and I lost their dad to cancer.

It’s not easy to wait, hoping for the best, when you know how it feels to face the worst.

But isn’t that what we do every day? Yesterday, for instance, I woke up, drank coffee, and went merrily on my way through a minefield of potential tragedies and disasters called “life.”

I could’ve crashed my car, but stopped just in time. I could’ve slipped on a spill (as I did once) and broken my ankle. But I saw the spill and wiped it up. I could’ve had news from a loved one that would break my heart and change my life forever. But thanks be to God, I did not.

Why do we remember so clearly all the bad news in life, but forget so easily and fail to give thanks for the countless times we are spared?

I remember once, interviewing a man, the father of four young children, who had lost his wife in a horrific car accident.

“My children and I grieve for their mother,” he said. “We’ll never forget her. But she would want them to grow up unafraid. She would want them to know that they’ve had a great life with just one tragedy.”

The Lazy Susan spins again and I grab all the good thoughts I can hold. I don’t want to let worry rob me of joy. I want to believe the best, and have the faith to trust that, if it comes, I will face the worst with grace.

Two hours later, my husband is ready to go home. The news this day is all good. He passed the test with flying colors.

I wish you could see the “good news” smile on my face.

Maybe I’ll smile it more often.

The dawn of a new year invites us to look back, give thanks, and smile at whatever lies ahead.

I find it easier to let go of the past when I have something to look forward to in the future. For me, 2019 was a year of change. I suspect it was for you, as well. Is there ever a year, or even a day, that we don’t face some kind of change?

We turn a year older. Get married. Have a baby. Change jobs. Or we lose someone we love that we thought we could never live without.

I remember my college biology professor saying that a living cell is always changing; when it stops changing, it dies. Life is change, and we change with it. But some years bring more change than others.

Last spring, my husband and I sold the house where I had lived most of my adult life, the place where my late husband and I had raised our three children.

I loved that house, and all the memories it held for me. I never wanted to live anywhere else. But in time, my knees began complaining about the stairs. I could slide down the banister, but sliding up was a problem.

So we sold it and moved to a much smaller place 20 miles out of town, on a hill surrounded by mountains that remind me of the mountains I loved as a child growing up in North Carolina.

It was hard letting go of my old house and the town that I had called “home.” But here’s something interesting that I’ve learned about loss: It always comes with gifts. The greater the loss, the greater the gift. Have you noticed that, too?

It has been such a gift for me to wake up each morning, as I did long ago, in a green cradle of mountains. I had no idea how much I had missed them.

Another big change for me this year was the addition of two more grandchildren, bringing our combined total to eight. In March, my husband’s son and his wife gave birth to their third child, Beatrix. And in April, my son and his wife welcomed Jonah, their first.

I wish you could see them.

We are fortunate to have all our children and grandchildren closeby — five minutes to five hours away — all within reach. And we reach for them often.

When my husband retired from a lifetime as a newspaper editor, I couldn’t help thinking about what a friend had told me after her husband retired: “I married that guy for better or worse, but not for lunch!”

I needn’t have worried. Leaving the newsroom just gave my husband more time to play his bass. He practices for hours every day in the garage and plays in a band, cheered on by his biggest fans, our 8- and 9-year-old grandsons. And we take turns making lunch.

As for me, by some miracle, I still have the same job I’ve loved for almost 30 years. I wrote 50 columns this year (with two weeks off for good behavior) and was so happy to hear from readers around the country who were kind enough to write and say that my stories are their stories, too. Imagine that.

Some things change, but some things stay the same. It’s worth waking up each day just to see what will happen next.

What am I looking forward to in the coming year? Life. It’s good for me and my family. I pray it is for you and yours.

When you look back on 2019, what are the memories, and who are the people, that make you smile and fill your heart with gratitude? In what ways did your life change this year? What do you look forward to in 2020?

Here’s my New Year’s wish for you, one my grandmother would wish for me:

May all your hopes and dreams come true and your fears never come to pass.

May you give with grace and receive with gratitude, knowing either way you are blessed.

May God hold you in his hand and never close his fist too tight.

And may you say nice things about me when I’m gone.

Happy 2020!

Holiday parties are highly overrated. Unless someone else is hosting them. Every year in early fall, I start planning a fabulous party, with great food, lovely decorations and a guest list that includes, not only family and friends, but neighbors and other folks I’ve wanted to invite over for years. Along with their dogs.

You would be invited, too. No need to bring anything. Unless, of course, you really want to.

But somehow my party never happens. Halloween starts off with a bang. No costume party, but plenty of candy.

Then it’s Thanksgiving, which in my family’s tradition, is more about giving thanks and overeating than entertaining.

Next thing I know, it’s two days before Christmas and I’m still several gifts short. And it’s too late for prime shipping.

So I take a deep breath, slather my knees in Biofreeze, knock back two Advil and join the throngs of not-so-jolly shoppers, while praying I will find just the right gifts and that when I get home, exhausted and broke, I’ll remember who each gift is for.

Tell me this: Who’s bright idea was it to put New Year’s Day on the calendar just a week after Christmas? Seriously?

I don’t know about you, but the week after Christmas I don’t feel like celebrating anything except the surprising fact that I’m still alive. Which is not a bad thing to celebrate. As long as I don’t have to host a party for it.

Honestly? I think the best thing we could do for ourselves and each other is to declare a national holiday for the first week after Christmas — better yet, let’s make it two weeks — in which we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to do, not even get dressed or go to work or talk to each other.

We would still need to eat, of course. That’s always a problem, especially if we have children to feed. I remember picking my three up from school, thinking, “Oh, Lord, they’re probably going to want to eat. Again.”

The holiday I’m proposing wouldn’t ban eating. Or bathing. Or other necessities. It would simply be two weeks off from things that involve work. And socializing. And politics ….

Forget two weeks, let’s make it a month. Maybe then, I’d host a party to celebrate doing whatever we want — providing, of course, that it doesn’t hurt anybody or break any laws.

The truth is, I love a good party. Take the one my husband and I attended recently. It was hosted by dear friends who have hosted it faithfully every year for 50 years. He’s a retired teacher who taught with my late husband. And she is the angel who took me under her wing long ago and answered all my questions on nursing and mothering and life.

I was a regular at that party until I moved 500 miles away. Fortunately I moved back and could make it this year.

A lot can change if you don’t see someone for 20 years. But when I looked in their eyes and hugged their necks, they seemed the same as always.

That was also true of others at that party — old friends I’ve known and loved and missed for far too long. My new husband (of 15 years) had never met most of them, but they welcomed him and, as usual, he fit right in.

It was such a gift. And the eggnog and ham were better than anything I’d have served. That’s the mark of a great party. It welcomes oldtimers and newcomers alike. It lets us connect and remember who we were once, and who we are now.

We may never get to celebrate a National Do What You Want Month. But who knows? Maybe next year, I’ll host a party and invite you and everybody I can think of, and all your dogs.

Or not.

Either way, I hope my friends will invite me to their party. It’s a lovely thing to renew old ties and make new ones. Especially if I don’t have to host.

This is a Christmas story. I’ve told parts of it before. But some stories bear repeating, especially at Christmas, when old things — people and traditions and even the world — often seem new.

Like most stories, this one is woven from memories, three memories of three perfect gifts. The first gift was a bird.

When I was 6, my mother bought a fake Christmas tree. It looked like a TV antenna covered in toilet brushes. She said I could decorate it, but I knew it wouldn’t help. You can put lipstick on a pig, but still.

The day after Christmas, I went to spend a week with my grandmother on her farm. I told her about the tree and she said, “Your mama works too hard.”

The next morning, she woke me early and said, “Come see your Christmas tree.”

I looked out the window. It was snowing. And at the top of a snow-covered hemlock, there sat a single, perfect ornament: A redbird, singing its heart out, just for me.

Suddenly, it was Christmas.

The second gift was a promise from my mother. When I was 10, my family fell on hard times (harder than our usual) and Mama said Santa might be late.

“How late?” I asked.

“Maybe spring,” she said.

On Christmas Eve, some people from church brought us a food basket. My mother looked mortified, but thanked them kindly. It was our only gift that Christmas, except for a box of tangerines my stepfather put under the fake tree. At supper, when Mama served up the ham from the basket, she said this:

“Life is a bank. Sometimes we put into it. Sometimes we take out. It’s hard having to take. But remember how it feels, because one day you will do the giving.”

Suddenly, it was Christmas.

The third gift was a cassette tape. When my oldest child left for college, he took with him a boulder-size chunk of my heart.

It’s hard to let go of someone you’ve spent 18 years of your life watching over day and night. We visited him at school, he came home a few weekends, and we often talked by phone. But I missed him something fierce. I could hardly wait for him to come home for Christmas.

When he drove up out front (with a car full of laundry) I was waiting on the porch.

“Hey, Mama!”

I hugged him long and hard, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Glad you’re home,” I said.

“Glad to be here,” he nodded.

He unpacked his car, started a load of wash, ate everything in the fridge, then headed off to meet friends, promising to be back for dinner. But first he took something out of his pocket.

“Here,” he said, grinning, “I made this for you.”

I squinted at the names of two dozen songs he’d recorded on a cassette titled “Songs 4 Mom.”

It was the music I’d danced to as a teenager, and later, with him and his sister and brother when they were small — songs by James Taylor, Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder ….

“Where did you find these?”

“I borrowed them from guys at school and copied them on the tape. They’re all songs I know you love, plus a few new ones I think you’ll like, too.”

In that moment, I realized two things: My boy knew me well. And no matter how many miles or years might come between us, we would always be close.

Suddenly, it was Christmas.

The best gifts aren’t usually things we ask for. But they are always what we need: A redbird singing in a snow storm. A promise of hope in hard times. The assurance of being known well by someone we adore. Or a baby lying in a manger, who makes the soul feel its worth.

May this Christmas bring you your favorite gift, the one thing you need most of all, not tied up with ribbons under the tree, but wrapped in love in your heart.

And may it fill you and me and this weary old world with peace and joy and goodwill toward all.