Thinkingdog Publishing

Growing up in Europe meant many things: cobblestoned streets, more historical buildings than I could count, and the deep personal conviction that every pastry is improved by powdered sugar. But above all else—above the castles, above the trains that actually ran on time, above the little dachshunds we always had, multiples,—there were the Christmas markets. If you’ve ever wandered through a European Christmas market as a kid, you know exactly what I mean. Every town had one. Big, tiny, and everything in between. It didn’t matter if the population was ten thousand or ten… the market appeared magically, like elves built it overnight after finishing their gingerbread shift. And oh, the glow. The old towns lit up like fairy-tale book covers—golden lights wrapped around ancient buildings, each little wooden hut spilling warm brightness into the cold winter air. Even the stone streets seemed to sparkle, though that might’ve been leftover powdered sugar. Hard to say. And the smells. Good ...

Parents today will never—never—understand how my dad successfully managed a real, live Christmas tree in the 1960s with actual burning candles clipped to the branches. Not LED candles. Not battery-operated flicker candles. I’m talking honest-to-goodness wax candles with flames that snapped, crackled, and bravely licked at the pine needles like tiny dragons with holiday spirit. 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 w...