And there we were beneath it: three children hopped up on sugar, and a few dachshunds who, for reasons known only to dogs, believed that Christmas was the ideal time for interpretive dance. Add in Lametta—yes, the shiny silver tinsel we draped strand by strand like it was haute couture—and you’ve got a festive setup worthy of a cozy mystery prologue. Any modern fire marshal would faint.
Yet somehow, my father orchestrated this combustible symphony with the calm confidence of a man who believed strongly in supervision, tradition, and the power of a giant bucket of water placed discreetly beside the tree. We weren’t scared. We were briefed. Extensively. Frequently. With emphasis. Those candle-lit evenings came with more safety warnings than a modern chainsaw.
The rules were carved into our holiday DNA: nobody leaves the room when the candles are lit. Nobody roughhouses. Nobody runs. Nobody even thinks about breathing too enthusiastically near the tree. We followed the rules with monastic discipline because, honestly, we wanted Christmas to stay magical. And because we’d seen how fast dachshunds could ignite the chaos fuse.
But here’s the truth I still carry with me, deep into my life as a cozy mystery author: those evenings really were magical.
There was something about the dim room wrapped in stillness, the tree glowing with soft golden flames, the scent of pine blending with wax and warm dog fur, the way my dad hovered nearby pretending he wasn’t nervous. It felt sacred and sweet and a little bit dangerous—the perfect combination for a writer’s imagination. I’m convinced those nights planted the seeds that later grew into the whimsical, slightly mischievous worlds I love to create.
Today’s kids will never know what it’s like to experience “Christmas, but with controlled fire.” And honestly? They’re probably better off for it. But I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. Even now, when I write about magical chaos, mischievous pets, or family traditions that could go sideways at any moment, I can feel the glow of those candles again. I can hear the dachshunds rustling under the tree like festive gremlins. I can smell Christmas the way it used to be.
And every year, when I plug in my much-safer, electricity-approved holiday lights, I smile and whisper, “Dad, you miracle worker… how did nothing ever catch fire?”
Magic, I suppose. Pure Christmas magic.
And a very large bucket of water.
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