My Most Romantic Christmas

In 1976, my sailor husband was out to sea in his submarine leaving me and our infant daughter alone in Groton, Connecticut. My Kansas home had never seemed so far away. In spite of the fact that I was going to spend the holidays with only my seven-month-old daughter, I was determined to imbue our sparsely furnished apartment with the Christmas spirit. With the baby in my backpack carrier, I trudged through the snow at a nearby Christmas tree farm and picked out the most beautiful blue spruce I could find in my price range.

Needless to say, it was small, but it filled my apartment with that wonder fresh-cut pine scent. After adding a string of new light and the few ornaments I had brought from home, my living room didn’t look quite so bleak. In fact, the sofa and the floor lamp looked positively delighted to have the company. As I made a foil star to top my tree, I struggled not to cry. It was a very low point in my life. Facing the holidays alone was hard.

Then, one December 22, I got an unexpected call. My husband’s submarine was coming into port for repairs and the crew would be allowed one night’s liberty. On Christmas Eve! That night, I hurried to picked up my husband at the naval base. We hadn’t seen each other in two and a half months. There was a whole lot of kissing going on even without mistletoe.

After the baby was tucked snug in her crib, my husband and I snuggled together on the sofa. The lovely lights of my little tree cast a heartwarming glow across the room. That tiny, bare apartment became the place I spend my most romantic Christmas Eve ever.





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