There were nine of the Smith children, and the grandmothers and
cousins, and there was a big house that never quite ended, and
there were the smokehouse and hog-killing and the shaking of the
pecan trees, and all the delicious doings that went on in a
nineteenth-century kitchen, which lingered into the early decades
of the twentieth century. But above all, there was a father who, as
impresario and ritual maker, polished family events so that, as the
author says," Even today, a half century later, they blind the eyes
with their shine." She goes on to day, "But perhaps what holds it
so fresh in my memory is the fact that along with all our physical
play and work we lived a wild life of imagination: it was hard to
keep it from spilling over into reality and painful when reality
would step up and prune our flowering. That is why in this memory
of Christmas in a small southern town there are sudden excursions
to Versailles and the Hall of Mirrors and to the small-town Opera
House and the jail in search of a Christmas gift for the parents;
and it is why an elegant coffin could figure so prominently in the
festivities. And why, one year, forty-eight 'real' convicts ate
Christmas dinner with us."
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