Holiday Stories & Memories
Where the magic of holidays past lives on.
Cranberries: The Tart Little Trouble-Makers of Thanksgiving
Aug 24, 2026
—
Ah, cranberries. The tiny, tart jewels of the fruit world that have somehow managed to wiggle their way onto every Thanksgiving table in America. Whether you love them, tolerate them, or just politely nudge them to the side of your plate, there’s no denying cranberries are as much a part of the holiday as awkward political debates with distant relatives.
A Berry with a Backstory
Cranberries have been hanging around North America longer than, well, America itself. Indigenous peoples were the first to make use of these ruby-red powerhouses, mashing them into pemmican (a sort of survival snack bar with meat and fat—think of it as the original protein bar). Later, European settlers caught on and started tossing cranberries into sauces, pies, and whatever else they could think of. And thus, the great cranberry takeover began.
Not much to look at, but packed with enough protein to fuel a cross-country trek—pemmican: the original energy bar (before granola made it cool).
Thanksgiving’s Favorite Sidekick
Let’s be honest: cranberry sauce is one of the most polarizing items on the Thanksgiving table. You’ve got two camps—Team Homemade, who insist on simmering whole berries with sugar and orange zest for that perfect sweet-tart balance, and Team Canned, who will die on the hill that a wobbly, ridged cylinder of jelly is the only way to go. No judgment here—we respect all cranberry preferences.
That said, our family may have taken canned cranberry devotion to legendary heights.
A Jell-O Incident for the Ages
One year, Penny’s mother piled her plate high with the canned cranberry sauce—you know, the jiggly one—mistaking it for Jell-O. And not just a polite scoop. We’re talking a mountain of it.
When Penny (whose given name was Joe, though hardly anyone called him that) tried to gently clarify, she didn’t miss a beat. In her thick Eastern European accent, she simply nodded and said,
“I know, Joe. I know.”
And then she ate the entire thing like it was absolutely the Jell-O she meant to eat all along. We still laugh about it every year—and honestly, it kind of made us love canned cranberry sauce even more.
One jiggles, one sparkles—I know which one looks fancier, but hey, I’m not here to judge… or am I?
Beyond the Sauce: Cranberry Cobbler
If cranberry sauce is the supporting actor of Thanksgiving, cranberry cobbler is the unsung hero. Sweet, tart, buttery, and packed with warm, comforting flavors, cranberry cobbler is what happens when cranberries finally get their chance to shine without being upstaged by turkey. Mixed with sugar (because, let’s face it, cranberries on their own have the bite of an uninvited opinion at the dinner table), topped with a golden, biscuit-like crust, and baked until bubbly, this dessert is everything fall should taste like.
If you're interested in Rose's cranberry cobbler recipe, the button link is provided at the end of the blog.
How Cranberries Get Their Feet Wet
Unlike most fruits, which prefer to grow in normal, respectable soil, cranberries thrive in bogs—yes, bogs. Harvesting these berries is like something out of a magical autumn fairytale. Farmers flood the bogs, creating a sea of floating cranberries that get corralled and scooped up like tiny red lifeboats. The whole process is as mesmerizing as it is oddly satisfying—and if you’ve never seen a cranberry harvest in action, don’t worry, we’ve got you covered. Just keep scrolling for your front-row seat to nature’s version of a ball pit.
A sea of cranberries, just waiting to become sauce, cobbler… or that one rogue berry that rolls off the counter on Thanksgiving morning.
Watch below as the cranberry bog comes to life—complete with bouncing berries, hip waders, and a whole lot of fall magic.
Click on the image to play the video.
The Sweet Smell of Tradition
Here’s where the story takes a cozy turn. At Penny & Rose, we believe in capturing nostalgia one fragrance at a time. And nothing says fall quite like Gram's Cran Cobbler, our seasonal fragrance inspired by the homemade cranberry cobbler that graced the Thanksgiving table year after year. It’s warm, fruity, a little sweet, a little tart—just like the real thing. One whiff, and you’re transported to a kitchen filled with the scent of bubbling cranberries and golden, buttery crust, the perfect backdrop to family, gratitude, and second helpings. And yes—even a towering scoop of “cranberry Jell-O” if you’re lucky enough to be seated next to Penny’s mom.
A perfect Thanksgiving feast...but wait - where's the turkey? Did Grandpa already sneak off with it?!
So whether you love cranberries in sauce, cobbler, or just floating in a bog somewhere, one thing’s for sure—fall wouldn’t be the same without them.
Team canned? Team homemade? Or just here for the cobbler? We want to know your cranberry traditions—scroll down and share your sweet (or tart!) stories in the comments below!
Shop Our Collection
Shop Gram's Cran Cobbler
Read Story Gram's Cran Cobbler
Rose's Cranberry Cobbler Recipe
The Magic of Christmas Eve: Stockings, Stories & Sugarplums
Dec 01, 2025
—
Ah, Christmas Eve. The most magical night of the year—unless you’re a parent, in which case it’s a frantic race against time to assemble bikes, wrap last-minute gifts, and explain for the hundredth time why Santa doesn’t need a house key.
For kids, though? Pure magic. That heart-racing, cookie-fueled anticipation. The giddy, sugar-dizzy struggle to stay awake, just in case they caught a glimpse of the big guy in red. The night before Christmas is the very definition of nostalgia—wrapped up in twinkling lights, pine-scented air, and the distant sound of somebody dropping an ornament.
A Very Merry Christmas Eve
Christmas Eve traditions have been delighting (and exhausting) families for centuries. Sure, the idea of a jolly gift-giver goes way back (we see you, Saint Nicholas), but the Santa Claus we know today—the plump, red-suited, reindeer-driving fellow—really took shape in the 1800s.
And that’s largely thanks to one poem:
“'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…”
Clement Clarke Moore’s 1823 poem, A Visit from St. Nicholas, did more than rhyme—it rewired Christmas Eve. It cemented Santa’s chimney entrance, his team of tiny reindeer, and the universal understanding that yes, he really does see you when you’re sleeping (mildly creepy, but we roll with it).
A Reading of ’Twas the Night Before Christmas
Take a moment, press play, and let the story unfold just as it did in living rooms long ago—one rhyme at a time.
Your browser does not support the audio element.
But it wasn’t just the poem. In the decades that followed, Christmas Eve evolved into a major cultural event. By the mid-1800s, illustrator Thomas Nast had drawn the modern Santa we recognize today, first appearing in Harper’s Weekly. His illustrations gave Santa a home at the North Pole, a list of naughty and nice, and eventually even that iconic red suit.
Thomas Nast’s Santa: rosy cheeks, armful of toys, and a vibe that says “I’ve had three mugs of hot cocoa and I’m just getting started.”
Meanwhile, German and Dutch immigrants were bringing their own traditions to the American mix: wooden nutcrackers, advent calendars, and of course, the Christmas tree. Stockings hung by the fire were originally shoes set out for Saint Nicholas in European households, filled with fruit, nuts, and small toys.
Christmas, Victorian-style: delicate ornaments, actual candles (what could go wrong?), and kids trying their best to sit still in wool trousers.
By the time the 1950s rolled around, the whole production had hit full swing: tinsel-covered trees, Bing Crosby crooning from the radio, department store Santas, and glowing aluminum trees for the modern home.
A little Bing in the background—just like it used to be.
Your browser does not support the audio element.
Christmas Eve had transformed into a night of cookies and cocoa, church services and midnight carols, and above all, a celebration steeped in nostalgia, warmth, and togetherness—and, if you were lucky, maybe even a white Christmas.
The Tree: The Heart of the Home
No Christmas Eve would be complete without the tree—decked out in lights, ornaments, and at least one strand of tinsel that the cat will try to eat. Thanks to those early German and Dutch immigrants, the tradition caught on quickly—and by the 1950s, trees were glowing in every living room, some even rotating (because why not?).
Mid-century magic: Woolworth’s promised everything from ornaments to tinsel—and a Santa who never forgot the batteries.
For many families, picking out the tree was a tradition in itself—especially in rural areas where Christmas tree farms dotted the countryside. Rows of Blue Spruce and Pine stretched across frosted fields, waiting to be chosen, chopped, and hauled home on the roof of the family car. Some folks went to local lots. Others, like Penny and Rose, tended their own patch of trees down on the farm.
Penny planted new seedlings each fall and trimmed the branches every summer to make sure they were just the right shape to hold lights and tinsel. Come December, the family would return with saws, shovels, and a Thermos of Rose’s hot chocolate. They sold the trees for a dollar apiece—though their cousin Dale would often resell them for triple that in Allegheny County. It never bothered Penny. He was happy to help someone else find the perfect Christmas tree.
“We sold them for a dollar. Penny never minded—he just wanted someone to have a tree for Christmas.”
The one they took back to their house in Glassport was always from the farm. Even in the coldest years, they’d roll the windows down just to breathe in that sharp, wintry evergreen scent all the way home.
And once inside, the whole family would gather around, cut the twine, and watch the branches fall open like the ribbon at the grand opening of something magical.
The Spirit of Christmas, Bottled Up
There’s a reason Christmas Eve feels so different from any other night—it’s the smell, the anticipation, the warmth of family gathered together. And that’s exactly what we wanted to capture with ’Twas the Night, one of our seasonal fragrances.
Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and you’re right back there: the scent of cookies baking (or sugar plums, if you want to be fancy), the crisp aroma of spruce from the tree, hints of cranberry and cinnamon drifting through the air. The magic of stockings by the fireplace, candlelight flickering, and the hush of snowfall outside—it all lingers in the air like a memory.
And for us, those memories live in a very real place—down in Penny and Rose’s basement, where the magic always seemed to show up right on time. Growing up, we spent our Christmases packed in there, surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles, all talking over one another in true holiday spirit.
The basement itself? Dingy. (It was Glassport, after all—a true Pittsburgh steel town, complete with exposed pipes, cinderblock walls, and yes, the infamous Pittsburgh Potty in the corner. If you don’t know what that is, just wait—we’ll get to it.) But did that dampen our Christmas joy? Not a chance. There was laughter, there were stories, and there was always the unmistakable feeling of something special in the air—something we’ve been trying to bottle ever since.
All of us holding presents, none of us smiling—probably because we knew what lurked just beyond the frame: the Pittsburgh Potty. Not one cousin would go near it for fear of becoming, you know, the victim in their own basement horror story.
So many of our favorite memories were made in that little Glassport basement—surrounded by family, wrapped in blankets, the tree twinkling in the corner. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home.
And for us, Christmas Eve will always smell like home-cooked treats and fresh-cut spruce, sound like laughter, and feel like something you carry with you—long after the night is gone.
If Christmas Eve brings back memories of sugar cookies, pine trees, and cousins packed into a noisy basement, we hope this story made you feel right at home. We'd love to hear what Christmas Eve looked like in your house, too—feel free to share your favorite memory in the comments.
Shop our collection
Rose's Sugarplum Recipe
Shop 'Twas the Night
And speaking of that basement…
The Pittsburgh Potty (Yes, It’s a Real Thing)
If you grew up in or around Pittsburgh, you might’ve encountered one of these lone basement toilets—no walls, no sink, just sitting there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Welcome to the world of the Pittsburgh Potty.
These fixtures were a staple of steel town homes built in the early 1900s. Legend has it they were installed for steelworkers coming home filthy from the mills. The idea? Head through the cellar door, clean up downstairs (sometimes with a nearby utility sink or shower), and avoid dragging soot and grease through the rest of the house. Practical? Absolutely. Dignified? Let’s just say... it depends on your perspective.
At Penny & Rose’s, their Pittsburgh Potty was tucked right under the stairwell, lit only by a single dangling bulb that flickered like it knew something you didn’t. It looked less like a bathroom and more like the opening scene of a low-budget horror movie. And yet, it was part of the charm—just one more quirky detail in a house full of stories.
Proof that the Pittsburgh Potty was real—and somehow even more ominous when photographed in daylight.
Over the years, some of these toilets were boxed in or tiled over, while others stood proudly in their original, wide-open glory. You never really questioned them… you just accepted their place in the family history—like a strange but beloved uncle who always brought the best cookies to the party.
Got a Pittsburgh Potty story of your own? Maybe one still sitting proudly in your basement? We’d love to hear it—drop your tale in the comments and let’s celebrate this wonderfully weird piece of Steel City history together.
Model Trains: The Miniature World That Took Over Basements (and Christmas Trees) in the 1950s
Dec 15, 2025
—
Before video games, before remote-controlled cars, and long before the internet stole everyone’s attention, there were model trains—the ultimate pastime for hobbyists, dreamers, and dads with way too much time on their hands around the holidays.
In the 1950s, model trains weren’t just a hobby; they were a lifestyle. Every Christmas, living rooms transformed into tiny railroads, with locomotives chugging their way around the Christmas tree, delighting kids and adults alike. But for the truly dedicated, the passion didn’t stop when the tree came down. No, the real model train enthusiasts spent months—sometimes years—crafting elaborate worlds for their miniature locomotives to explore.
The official start of the season: when the tree goes up, and Dad's train gets first dibs on the living room real estate.
The Golden Age of Model Trains
The 1950s were the golden years for model railroading. Lionel, American Flyer, and Marx were the big names in the business, cranking out trains that ran on electricity and captured the imaginations of hobbyists everywhere. Some train sets were simple ovals of track meant for Christmas morning, but others—oh, others—became sprawling masterpieces, complete with mountains, tunnels, bridges, and tiny little towns that looked like something straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
People got creative. They used plaster to build mountains, painted backdrops to create realistic scenery, and even wired up tiny streetlights so their towns could “come alive” at night. And let’s not forget the level of patience required—perfecting a train setup was not for the faint of heart. There were tracks to align, engines to maintain, and of course, the occasional runaway train that derailed and sent miniature citizens into chaos.
Mountains made of plaster, tunnels carved with care, and a runaway train or two—step into the golden age of model railroading.
Click on the image below to play the video.
Penny’s Legendary Train Setup
Now, if you think people took their train setups seriously, you haven’t met Penny. Penny didn’t just set up a model train—he engineered an entire world in the basement of his Glassport home. Each year, he transformed his pool table into a massive train display, laying down sheets of plywood to create the perfect foundation.
But Penny wasn’t just about tracks and trains. No, he took things to a whole new level. He used coffee grounds to create realistic dirt, hand-painted tiny details, and spent weeks meticulously arranging every piece to perfection. His setup became so impressive that one year, the local newspaper even came to do a write-up on it. While Penny never did it for the attention, it’s safe to say his trains were the stuff of legend.
And honestly, isn’t that what model trains are all about? It’s more than just a hobby—it’s a labor of love, a testament to patience, creativity, and maybe just a touch of obsession.
Penny, mid-tinker in the basement—somewhere in that glorious chaos of mountains, smokestacks, and tiny towns was a train. Probably.
Why Model Trains Still Matter
Though their heyday was in the 1950s, model trains never truly went out of style. Today, there are still clubs, collectors, and enthusiasts who keep the tradition alive, building massive layouts that would make any train lover jealous. Modern technology has only made things more elaborate, with digital controls, sound effects, and even tiny cameras that let you see what it’s like to “ride” the train.
But at its core, model railroading is still the same: a chance to create, to imagine, and to build something truly special—just like Penny did, year after year. And if you really want to set the scene, a little The Tree of '53 filling the air with fresh spruce can make your Christmas tree—and the train circling it—feel like a trip straight to a winter wonderland. Or go all in with ’Twas the Night to add that cozy, pine and cranberry sweetness and warmth, because let’s be honest—model trains and Christmas nostalgia go together like a conductor’s hat and a pocket watch.
Penny beside his beloved blue spruce—his tree of choice every Christmas, and always the one under which the trains would run.
So whether you’re setting up a simple track around the Christmas tree or dedicating an entire room to your own miniature railroad empire, just remember: model trains aren’t just about the trains. They’re about the stories, the memories, and the magic of bringing a little world to life—one tiny track at a time.
Did you—or someone in your family—have a legendary train setup? A Christmas tradition that involved more duct tape and fake snow than you'd like to admit? We'd love to hear about it. Share your favorite train memories in the comments below!
Shop Our Collection
SHOP The Tree of '53
SHOP 'Twas the Night'
Homespun Harvest
Jan 10, 2020
—
Doused in leaves of red and yellow, our small town was picturesque in autumn. Seated along the Monongahela River, the air was a crisp 45, as the unboxing of steel tracks, model bridges and road signs announced the arrival of yet another holiday season in Glassport, Pennsylvania. Penny was in the basement, unpacking one box after another with determination to have his ever-expanding train set up and running by Christmas.
Rosie on the front steps of 306 Monongahela
Upstairs, recipes scribbled by hand and torn from cookbooks graced the kitchen countertop, as Rose compiled the ingredients for pumpkin pie, stuffing, and green bean casserole. That Glassport kitchen had to be the size of a guest bath, and yet she managed to build a feast within its bounds.
And I...well, I had the best seat in the house!—a red stool in the corner of the kitchen where I could watch the food being made (and maybe swipe a taste!) without being in my mother’s way.
Aromas of cinnamon and ginger swirled through the kitchen and into the living room where Wayne sat with Tommy Sweeney, a blind foster child around 9-years-old. Tommy smiled as Wayne wound the key of a shiny tin car.
“Ready, Tommy?”
Wayne gave the key one more crank and sent the car racing across the carpet. Tommy excitedly followed the unwinding of its gears and returned the car for Wayne to wind over and over again until dinnertime.
Tommy was like family. During the school year, he lived with his parents and attended a Braille school, but over the holidays, he lived with us in Glassport and spent summers with us at the farm. He had two glass eyes that he was always taking out and misplacing. Many hours were spent on hands and knees wondering where on Earth Tommy had left his eyes!
Penny & Tommy
“Hey there, Tommy!” Uncle Ed and Aunt Mary announced their arrival, a hot casserole dish in hand.
“Do me a favor and stir the gravy, Roy,” Rose asked, her hands sticky with pie dough as she embraced our new arrivals.
Her famous sweet potato balls were already out of the oven when she left the kitchen, and I was sure to take advantage as I stirred. The marshmallow center was still warm and the cornflake crust, sweet and crunchy. Absolute perfection.
“Are you still stirring?” Rose hollered, entering with yet another casserole dish. I managed a “yes” through sticky teeth.
“Joe,” Rose continued, “Can you bring up my carving knife?” Rose was now in full hostess mode, as more and more guests arrived by the minute. Penny, however, hadn’t caught the growing sound of footsteps nor the distinct bouquet of a Thanksgiving harvest simmering and baking above him. No, Penny was too focused on connecting tracks and wires that would fill the entire basement with train whistles and Christmas spirit.
“Joe?” she called again. This time, he stood up, clunking his head against the bottom of the train platform.
“Yes, dear?”
“My carving knife.”
Of course. The carving knife, a gift from Penny, was still in its box, sitting patiently in the basement since last Christmas. It was finally time for it to shine.
Rose is about to open her surprise Christmas gift… will she be excited?
Press play to find out.
Penny ascended the stairs to a cacophony of family, friends, and neighbors all piled into his home, the model trains in his rearview...at least until tomorrow.
The house seemed to expand like magic on holidays and the food was endless. Three foster babies had just woken from their naps and were crawling on the living room floor. Penny knelt before them to play peek-a-boo. They smiled wide and giggled as only babies can do, lighting up the entire room, when—
Foster Babies
“Dinner’s ready!” Rose’s voice rang the bell, and we darted to the table to clap our eyes on the glorious spread. The turkey was cooked to perfection at center, the green beans and biscuits and cranberry sauce awaited the blessing, and boy did our bellies rumble!
“Dear Lord,” Penny started. He gave thanks for the food, for all those gathered, and most of all for his beloved wife, the best cook to ever adorn a Thanksgiving day. When he finished, we all said,
“Amen” in unison.
Spirit of Giving | Penny & Rose featured with 3 foster babies, alongside Roses' handwritten list of the 51 foster babies they cared for over the years.
This was Tommy’s cue to show off his talents. Before anyone grabbed a single serving spoon, he’d stand proudly and announce the day’s cuisine by scent and scent alone.
“Carrots!” he’d start, then, “Beans!” “Corn!” and “Mashed potatoes!” He was rarely wrong, and we all just sat in amusement and in awe of his skillful sense. But by the time he got to the turkey, we were too impatient to not dig in…
Penny’s mother had already grabbed the cranberry sauce and took a heaping serving.
“Mom, you know that’s cranberry sauce, not Jell-O, right?” Penny warned. His mother loved Jell-O, but cranberry sauce? She paused for a moment. Indeed, it was cranberry sauce. But not wanting to be wrong, she plopped the final spoonful on her plate, and in her thick Eastern European accent proclaimed,
“Yes, I know, Joe. I know.”
Quiet giggles circled the table as Grandma Pensenstadler forced down all that cranberry sauce with cool stoicism.
Grandma Pensenstadler
Not an inch of my plate was bare, as I stacked on more stuffing and a second biscuit heaped with butter. On Thanksgiving, the kids ate whatever they wanted, and my parents were far too distracted to see just how many sweet potato balls I had eaten before the meal was even served.
After dinner, we turned on the football game. The Detroit Lions were hosting the Green Bay Packers and it was sure to be a close game. Penny was in the kitchen with the carving knife, cleaning the bones of our biggest bird yet. Tomorrow, we’d smother hot turkey sandwiches in gravy and lay about the house well past noon, our bellies still stuffed with pumpkin pie.
No one had trouble falling asleep that night, except for me. I had the honor of sharing a bed with Tommy, who would only begin to doze off after asking a million questions.
“Tell me the story again?” Tommy asked.
“Just one more time,” I yawned, “Okay?” Tommy shook his head. “The ball was snapped. Bobby Lane took three steps back, as the Packers’ defensive line advanced…”
My eyes began to close as I recalled the Lions’ 28-24 victory. And dozing off, I hadn’t seen Tommy take out both glass eyes and place them on the bedside table. Imagine my surprise when I awoke to two eyes staring right at me through the haze of morning light.
“Tommy!” I must’ve been white as a ghost. I bolted from bed, now wide awake, only to realize those eyes were his. “You don’t sleep with those things in?” I panted, and Tommy never laughed so hard.
Needless to say, that story followed me all day and would continue to make us laugh well into old age. Family memories are simply the best, even when you’re the butt of them.
__________
A house once bustling is much quieter today. My mother is in the kitchen, and I’ve just arrived with my wife and kids, a few casserole dishes in hand to add to the Thanksgiving feast. Though there may be fewer people this year, the amount of food is just the same. Rose kneels to hug the little ones with pie dough stuck to her fingers. They receive her kisses with smiles, her famous sweet potato balls within eyesight.
“Dad in the basement?” I ask, but I already know the answer. He’s got work to do. Christmas is just thirty days away, and there are tracks to be laid, trains to be unboxed. I’m about to make my way down there when the phone rings.
“Hello?” Rose answers.
“Do you know who this is?” the man asks on the other end.
“Tommy Sweeney!” Rose exclaims, and I stop short with my hand on the basement door.
“Hey, Tommy!” I shout loud enough so he can hear me.
“That’s Roy,” she smiles, and for the next thirty minutes, she’s forgotten all about the pies in the oven, which my wife rescues at the first scent of burning crust.
Tommy had called to thank them for their love and kindness to him when he was just a boy. “You’ve impacted and changed my life dramatically,” he told her. “I’ve actually made a tape,” he added. “Can I send it to you?”
A few days later, they received the cassette. It was Tommy’s voice alright, and on it, he detailed his days in Glassport and on the farm, thanking Penny and Rose for welcoming him into their home.
That house in Glassport seemed to expand like magic around the holidays, always making room for just one more. And although the years see fewer and fewer of the same faces, the legacy of their laughter and the spirit of their generosity fills the space they left behind.
From the corner of my eye, I catch my son sizing up the sweet potato balls, as Rose wraps herself up in the phone cord and Tommy’s voice on the end of the line.
“Hey,” I whisper in his direction and nod to the tray on the stove top...
...“Grab me one too.”
A Little Piece of the Story
Look closely at our Homespun Harvest scent photo and you’ll find a little piece of Penny & Rose history. The newspaper clipping pictured there is the original—carefully saved by my aunt for decades before finding its way back to me, along with other family keepsakes. It features Penny & Rose with three of the foster babies they welcomed into their home.
Some stories are worth saving.
If you’ve ever helped stir the gravy, made a kid laugh with a wind-up toy, or found yourself thinking of someone you haven’t seen in years—leave a note below. We’d love to hear it.
Shop Homespun Harvest
Rose's sweet potato balls recipe
Merry Mint
Jan 05, 2020
—
I’ll never forget the commercials that ran around Christmas time with jingles and slogans that take me back to my parents’ living room, the thick carpet at my feet, and the blurred faces of my favorite stars growing just a tad clearer with each toggle of the rabbit ears. I was a kid in 1976, standing way too close to the television screen as Johnny Cash held a Lionel train, "The Big Train for Small Hands" and Kodak touted the new Instant Camera, "For a Good Look at the Times of Your Life". My Christmas lists were inspired by these commercials, and I was lucky enough to get most of things I asked for. Gifts like Magna Doodle, Stretch Armstrong, and Connect Four were a far cry from the peppermint ribbons and pencil sets my parents used to get in their stockings as kids.
But Christmas morning came and went that year, and I found myself sulking over the fact that I was surely the only kid in my class who, at this very moment, wasn’t beating their little brother or sister in a game of PONG by the light of a TV screen. Instead, television crackled with the sound of an artificial Yule Log, as my mom put me to work collecting all the crumpled wrapping paper that lay scattered about the room. Nevertheless, I held out hope that perhaps that night when we visited my grandparents’ home in Glassport, there’d be an extra special gift by the tree just for me.
Christmas at Penny and Rose’s was set in their basement, with garland dangling from the ceiling, decorations scattered and taped here and there, a few exposed lightbulbs guiding our gift giving, and Penny’s classic train set winding its way around the pool table. The family Penny and Rose started in 1938 had since grown fourfold, and the basement was the only space in the house that could accommodate all nine grandchildren in a single row, perched atop a bench for the much needed holiday photo.
Hard to sit still with a stack of unopened presents teasing from behind
Oh the excitement...
The presents were stacked on a workbench behind us, all wrapped in identical paper, but varying in size. Before we were told to turn our backs, I had spied a good sized square box and thought certainly that was it, the present I had been dreaming about for months. I could barely contain my excitement as one by one each child was handed a present. The rule was that not a single gift was opened until every last one of us had a gift in hand. I looked around with empty hands. Everyone had a gift but me and Lisa. The excitement was near explosion at this point when...
The anticipation grows...
“Alright” Rose cooed, “last but not least,” and handed me what looked like a shirt box. My eyes shot to Lisa who, without my knowledge, had received a box so large she could barely wrap her arms around it. I frantically searched the “shirt” box for a name. This couldn’t be my gift; there had been some sort of a mix up! But before I could find the name, Lisa was already tearing at her paper, as were my siblings and my other cousins. I waited, half in shock, half curious to see the look on Lisa’s face when she accidentally opened my Atari game console. She’d know right away it was for me, and we’d put all this nonsense behind us. But Lisa held her gift up with a huge smile, posing for her father’s camera. She had gotten an Easy Bake Oven. I was frozen, flabbergasted.
The memory caretakers...
“Well, go on and open it,” a voice urged from behind me. Drawn from my daze, I began to slowly unwrap the box knowing full well my Christmas wish would not come true this year.
“Gee, thanks,” I whimpered, gripping yet another Magna Doodle in my hands like it was the front page of my dad’s morning newspaper. “We’ve got the receipt,” my mom said, as she and Rose laughed over the mix-up. Did they not see how grave a mistake this was? I lazily retreated to the sofa, where my father sat cranking the lever of his new Kodak. He placed the photo on the table and within seconds a color image of me and my cousins appeared. I was met face to face with my ungrateful frown, bold and brazen among the other smiling faces, while everything good about Christmas in my grandparents’ basement danced about in pure merriment. It was in this moment, I knew I had to make the decision for myself. I could sit sulking for the rest of the evening, or I could pick up an empty tube of wrapping paper and challenge my cousins to the ultimate sword fight.
“En guard!” I cried and the battlefield was set.
It wasn’t long before the smell of coffee grounds from Penny’s train display was swept away by Rose’s new Emeraude perfume and the tearing of wrapping paper was bowled over by laughter and “Auld lang syne”. The large box of Queen Anne chocolates and tins full of apricot and poppy seed cookies were brought downstairs as we sucked on peppermint ribbon candy, our fingers growing stickier by the second. Once our bellies were bursting with sweets, Penny would make the rounds for one last gift, an intricately crafted piece, made from wood, and perfectly engineered in the palm of his hand. Each year brought some new masterpiece and each grandkid received their very own. This year’s gift was a 3-level Mississippi River Steamboat, painted white with a bright red paddle wheel and a toothpick sized flag pole that proudly waved the stars and stripes. Though my toys received the most attention through the years, it’s these handmade gifts from Penny I now treasure most.
One of Penny's priceless handmade gifts
Just as the evening was winding down, and the cookie tins were dusted with nothing but crumbs, my mother made an announcement:
“We have two more gifts!” she sang, and once again, my stomach lifted. This would be my 'Christmas Story ', and PONG being the Red Ryder BB Gun Ralphie tucked silently beside the Christmas tree. They had gotten it for me afterall!
More please...
But instead of a large game console wrapped in red and green, she revealed two robes, one red and one blue, and hung them proudly from an overhead pipe. From the front, they looked like your average robes, but once she had everyone’s attention, she flipped them around to reveal 40 $20 bills on each robe and two hand-drawn pictures: on Rose’s robe, the farmhouse, and on Penny’s robe, the barn. Though they could certainly use a new mattress on their bed upstairs or a better toilet in the basement, we all knew they would put every last bill toward the farmhouse on Butternut Road. My grandparents were all smiles, as they gazed at one another from opposite sides of a wooden support beam, looking like young lovers who had just etched their initials into a tree trunk. Though snow lay heavy on the streets outside and summer was still months away, the farm was alive in their eyes. I too gazed upon them in awe, not because of their love for one another, but because they were now rich! I counted to two-hundred before I lost track and got lost in all the plans Penny had for the money. He’d extend the dock and build a bridge, maybe build a new car for the race track, and of course, make sure the fireworks that 4th of July were bigger and better than ever.
The legendary robes
When most of us kids were already in our pajamas and the cars packed up with new gadgets, toys, and books, I managed to swipe one more ribbon of peppermint candy for the road and the Magna Doodle my grandparents had gifted me, the receipt now taped to its box. We said our “good-byes” and ran to the car, our teeth chattering in the icy cold. The radio played the last of the Christmas songs, and though the same songs had been played a million times since Thanksgiving, we soaked in every note, knowing we’d have to wait a full year to hear them once again. When we got home, I tucked the Magna Doodle under my bed for safekeeping and placed the Mississippi Steamboat on my shelf next to a piggy bank full of pennies.
Before lights out, my mother came into my room to say goodnight. She smiled as I read aloud from Frog and Toad and kissed me gently on the forehead.
“What did you do with the Magna Doodle Gram and Grandpa gave you?” she asked. “I’ll return it to the store this week. You can pick something out with the money.”
“It’s under my bed,” I said. “It’s for the farm.”
She looked at me with confusion. “Oh? But you can just take the one you opened this morning.”
“I want to give it to a foster kid,” I explained. “There’ll be a kid there this summer, right?”
She touched my shoulder and kissed me one more time. “Yes, sweetheart, I’m sure there will be.” I felt the darkness blanket me as my mom closed my bedroom door, tucking me in for a long winter’s nap.
__________
When I woke, the year was 2018. I was a father, telling my daughter not to hold the iPad so close to her face as she watched a video on YouTube. Her Christmas list is inspired by these videos and the channels of her favorite YouTube stars. Gifts like a robotic tiger, a fidget spinner, and some egg thing called Hatchimals are a far cry from the Connect Four and Stretch Armstrong I received on Christmas Day. Our artificial Christmas tree stands in the corner of the room as a Blue Spruce candle burns and fills the room with Christmases past. It’s just easier this way. The scent drifts toward the bookshelves, which hold mostly framed photos, and the miniature wooden toys my grandfather used to make each of his grandchildren every year for Christmas. The Mississippi Steamboat sits front and center.
“Have you ever had a peppermint ribbon?” I ask my daughter, my eyes still fixated on the Mississippi Steamboat. Her eyes, too, remain fixated on her screen, but she responds,
“Like a candy cane?”
“No,” I laugh. “Much better than a candy cane.” I open my phone to a Google search and type in “peppermint candy ribbons”. Four ounces for seven bucks. Sold. They’ll arrive in 2-4 business days.
I look over to my daughter, still too close to the screen of her iPad, but this time, I don’t say a thing. When the candy arrives in a few days, I’ll watch her fingers grow stickier by the second as she rattles off her Christmas wishlist to me for the hundredth time. Maybe then I’ll tell her about my holidays with Penny and Rose, the basement in Glassport, and the row of miniature wooden toys that sit inside our bookshelf.
If you’ve ever sulked over a gift, fought your cousins with wrapping paper tubes, or reached for one more peppermint ribbon—you’re in good company. Share your favorite holiday memory below. We’d love to hear it.
Merry Mint
Dancing in the living room, candy on the coffee table, and all the laughter Christmas could hold.
Click on the image below to watch the video.
“Holidays with Penny & Rose – Glassport, PA”
Shop Merry Mint
Happy Holidays
The Tree of '53
Oct 26, 2026
—
“It’s dinner time!” Rose hollered to Penny, who tinkered in the living room with his train set and a little town whose population grew twofold by the hour. The thick smell of coffee grounds permeated the air, as Penny placed townspeople one by one on streets paved with Maxwell House. It was November 23rd, 1953. By Christmas Day, there would be street lamps and telephone wires, a pond, a waterfall, and two smoking trains that ripped through a mountain on their tracks. With years to come, the display would grow so large that it would be moved to the basement. Family, friends, and neighbors would visit just to see the train display. Though Thanksgiving had yet to come, Perry Como crooned “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” from the record player in the corner, and it was in this moment that I got to thinking about the Blue Spruce and Pine down on the farm.
The tree train display
The basement train display
We tended to those trees year round, planting new seedlings in the fall and trimming the ever-growing ones each June to make certain they were the perfect shape to hold tinsel and lights. At the end of each summer, after the farmhouse was clean, its valuables stored away, and our wagon packed for the drive back to Glassport, Penny would haul buckets of water from the house to the barn, where the trunks of our trees welcomed one last drink and said their “good-bye for now”. I would say there wasn’t anything he tended to with greater love or devotion than these trees to the left of our barn, but that just wouldn’t be true, although it wouldn’t be untrue either. He took on every project with the same intensity, squeezing more time out of a day than the sun or moon ever dared to. We’d wait patiently in the wagon, the puttering of the engine and the sweat on Penny’s brow as deeply woven into our farm traditions as Sunday church and mid-day swims.
Penny
Come December, we’d lace up our boots and head to the farm with saws, shovels, and a Thermos or two of Rose’s hot chocolate. While most of my memories cast our days on the farm in sunlight, there’s always been a special place in my heart for its semblance in winter—the acres of grass touched only by snow, the pond thick with ice, the windows of the farmhouse silenced by frost...there was something magical in its quietude, something spiritual in its stillness. I’d take it in like one does a painting and not realize I was holding my breath until a heavy exhale exposed the frigid air and—
“Grab a saw, son.”
Rose and the kids all bundled up
I turned to see Penny on his knees, halfway through the thick trunk of a beautiful Blue Spruce and Wayne not far behind at the base of a Pine. Buyers had begun to arrive, and they were already threading through our tiny lot, examining branches and assessing each tree’s height as if it were already standing in their living room. Once felled, we’d wrap them in twine and load them onto trucks or tie them atop car roofs, needles sticking to our gloves with sap. We sold each tree for one dollar, knowing full well that several of our buyers would turn around and resell them for much more.
Our biggest customer was always Cousin Dale, who’d load his truck full of trees and resell them in Allegheny County for triple the cost. But that never bothered Penny, who was happy with one dollar and happier still if he could help just one more person at Christmas time. The tree we took back to our home in Glassport was always from the farm, and despite the cold winter air, we’d lower the windows of the wagon the entire drive home to catch the scent of that year’s tree in the breeze.
Penny and his blue spruce
As we pulled into the driveway, we saw Rosie’s face, followed soon after by Kathie’s, fogging up the front windows of our house and the smoke from the fireplace lifting to the clouds. Rose no doubt had cookies in the oven and the tree stand already filled with water and waiting. The excitement was palpable. All together in the living room, we’d hoist the tree in its stand and cut the twine as if attending the ribbon cutting at a grand hotel. This year was no different; only, we had forgotten to pick one of our favorites from the lot before the buyers picked them dry, and before we knew it, every tree was sold but one...
The Tree of ‘53 did not win us much praise when we cut its twine that evening. It stood among boxes of ornaments and tangled string lights and knew it had zero chance of holding their weight for the next 32 days. Still we played the records and ate the cookies and decorated that tree as if it were standing in the East Room of the White House. Penny’s trains chugged around the trunk and throughout the room with a tick tick tick that drew the whole neighborhood and even a local reporter to our door that year. The layout was far too large for the reporter to capture in one shot, but a few days later, there it was: a photo of Penny and a small section of his beloved train right there on the front page.
Penny tinkering with his whistling trains...
“I wonder why they didn’t include the tree,” Penny quipped, setting off a decades-long string of jokes that would leave generations to come reminiscing about that scraggly Tree of ‘53 as if they too had unwrapped presents by its side.
Come Christmas morning, there wasn’t a single needle left on its branches. Of course, that didn’t stop me from sliding into the tree skirt like I had just hit a line drive past third base. Our presents were pristinely wrapped and waiting for us, as was Penny, perched on the sofa with a giant grin across his face, his eyes wide and blue like the great sky that proudly watched over us as we played down on the farm. There’d be even more gifts in the evening, when aunts, uncles, and cousins arrived, and we’d stay up way past our bedtime, rubbing our eyes to stay awake, lest we miss a moment that would last us a lifetime.
I remember Cousin Dale lighting a cigarette by the tree and joking that if he got too close, the whole house would burn down, and Penny responding with something about Dale taking all the good trees that year. I remember a baby being rocked to sleep in a chair amid laughter, and drinking, and dress shoes dancing on wood floors, as I fought the urge to drift off with all my might. I remember Penny with the 8mm camera and the sound of the film blending with that of the trains, as he drew the lens closer and closer to my face. But all those images dissolved to black, and I woke the next morning to the smell of bacon frying in the kitchen and coffee brewing strong. The taste was bittersweet, knowing I had missed some part of Christmas the night before.
__________
Some seventy years later (I do the math again to be sure...Has it really been that long?), I find myself retired and tinkering through the boxes in my basement, a cup of coffee permeating the air. “That box has to be here somewhere,” I think, as I’m led toward streets paved with Maxwell House and Penny’s whistling trains. Just one remains amid the tracks that are stacked neatly in rows with bubble wrap. I take it out of the box and lay a few tracks.
“Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Chugga, chugga. Chugga, chugga—Choo-choo!” steams from my lips before I catch myself. I’m closing in on 80 and the years drip from my eyes. But there’s something about a train that keeps a man young, transports him back to his childhood though the engine charges forward. I ride the train over boxes marked “The Farm”, “Vet School”, and “Janet”, plastic containers full of stuff my children never collected, and filing cabinets stuffed with paperwork. The train circles the old Bell and Howell projector and a box marked “Film”. Suddenly, my stomach drops and my heart races, like when you’re 16 and you take that first turn at the wheel onto a busy highway; excited and scared all at once.
My hands gravitate to a reel marked with the number “53” and the projector that hasn’t seen action for decades. After fumbling for close to 30 minutes, I discover the faded and flimsy owner’s manual beneath its heavy base, and in 10 minutes, the film is set. I imagine Penny doing this same thing on this very machine throughout the 50s and 60s, the skin on his hands thick with years of hard labor, as he secures an image of his loved ones behind the plate as I so carefully do today. I turn off the lights and flip the switch on the projector. It sounds like my old metal Radio Flyer barreling across a rocky drive or fighter jets in an air show, their missiles long silenced. Silent too are the people dancing across my wall; they move with the flickers of light, but their words are a mystery, their lips silenced by a kiss, a smile, a cigarette, a drink, or 8mm film. These were the days when it didn’t much matter what people said, but what they did, and I find myself pulled in by their silence, much like the farm pulled me in with its quietude each winter. The wheels continue to feed the film strip, ravenous for that simplicity once again. I wish I could slow it all down, and...
“Dad, it’s time for dinner!” my daughter hollers from the kitchen above, but I’m lost in the basement, tinkering with an old train set, sawing down a Blue Spruce, catching my breath on a snow-laden farm in winter, spying on Penny and Rose as they slow dance in the kitchen, and sweeping the needles that fell from...
...The Tree of ‘53
Gavin, age five, with his beloved trains.
A LITTLE PIECE OF THE STORY
Penny's love of trains found its way to another generation, first to my oldest son, Gavin, and then to my youngest son, Asher. Watching my boys absorbed in their little engines and tracks, I couldn't help but think of Penny tinkering with his own little town all those years ago. The trains were smaller, but the fascination was much the same—a connection to their great-grandfather through something that brought each of them so much joy.
Some things find their way down the tracks.
If you’ve ever stood beside a scraggly tree, marveled at model trains, or wished Christmas morning would last a little longer—we’d love to hear it. Share your memory below.
The Tree of ‘53
Christmas Day was pure magic—train sets, tinsel, and all the sweetness the season could hold.
Click on the image below to watch the video.
“Holidays with Penny & Rose”
Shop The Tree of '53
Happy Holidays!
Roses' Sweet Potato Balls
Aug 22, 2026
—
Roses' famous sweet potato balls fresh out the oven with their marshmallow center warm and gooey and the cornflake crust, sweet and crunchy. Absolute perfection.
Share your fave Thanksgiving goodie with us on Instagram, using
#AScentForYourThoughts
Details:
Serves 5
Prep & cook time 45 minutes
Oven 350° degrees F
Ingredients:
4 large sweet potatoes
2/3 cup packed brown sugar
2 tablespoons orange juice
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
2 cups corn flakes (slightly crushed)
1/2 cup chopped pecans (optional)
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 bag mini marshmallows
Directions:
Bake the potatoes until tender, then peel and mash (425° for approx. 60 minutes)
Reduce oven temperature to 350° degrees F
Stir in the brown sugar, orange juice and nutmeg to the mashed potatoes
Chill mashed potato mixture until slightly cooled
In a separate bowl, toss the corn flakes, sugar, cinnamon and chopped pecans
Form small, approx 1"–2" inch balls with the cooled mashed potato mixture
Gently insert 3–4 mini marshmallows into the center of the ball
Reshape as necessary
Roll the balls into the cornflake mixture
Bake for 15–20 minutes | watch the balls carefully for the remaining few minutes, as the marshmallows will expand and can burst the balls open
Did you grow up with sweet potatoes on the table too? Maybe your version had marshmallows, maybe it didn’t—but we’d love to hear your family’s favorite Thanksgiving sides. Share your memories in the comments below!
Shop Our Collection
Shop homespun harvest
Rose’s Pumpkin Pie
Aug 20, 2026
—
Thanksgiving at Rose’s house was never quiet. Between her own four kids and the dozens of foster babies who passed through their home over the years, the house was always buzzing. But somehow, even with all that beautiful chaos, she made time for her famous pumpkin pie—warm, spiced, and perfectly creamy. It was the kind of dessert that made everything slow down for a moment. And while the recipe may have evolved a bit over the years, the feeling behind it hasn’t changed one bit.
Share your pie baking adventures with us on Instagram, using
#AScentForYourThoughts
Details:
Serves 6–8
Prep & cook time: 1 hour 15 minutes
Oven: 350° degrees F
Ingredients:
For the crust:
2 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup unsalted butter, chilled and cut into cubes
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp sugar
6–8 tbsp ice water
For the filling:
1 (15 oz) can pumpkin puree
1 (8 oz) package cream cheese, softened
¾ cup granulated sugar
½ tsp salt
½ tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp ground ginger
¼ tsp ground cloves
2 large eggs
1 (12 oz) can evaporated milk
2 tbsp unsalted butter, melted
1 tsp vanilla extract
Directions:
Prepare the crust:
In a large bowl, combine the flour, salt, and sugar. Cut in the chilled butter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs.
Gradually add ice water, one tablespoon at a time, mixing gently until the dough comes together.
Divide the dough into two discs, wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least one hour.
When ready, roll out one disc to fit a 9-inch pie dish. Place in dish and set aside (you’ll only need one disc for this pie; save the second for another recipe!).
Prepare the filling:
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
In a large bowl, beat the cream cheese until smooth. Add pumpkin puree and beat until fully combined.
Mix in the sugar, salt, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.
Add eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition.
Stir in the evaporated milk, melted butter, and vanilla extract. Mix until smooth and creamy.
Assemble and bake:
Pour the filling into the prepared pie crust.
Place the pie on a baking sheet and bake in the preheated oven for 50–60 minutes, or until the center is set and a knife inserted near the middle comes out clean.
Cool on a wire rack for at least 2 hours before serving. Refrigerate leftovers.
To serve:
Top with whipped cream, a sprinkle of cinnamon, or a drizzle of maple syrup for a little something extra.
Serve chilled or at room temperature. Either way, it’s comfort in a crust.
Was there a signature pie at your family Thanksgivings? We’d love to hear about it in the comments—especially if it came with whipped cream and a little chaos in the kitchen.
Shop our collection
Shop Homespun Harvest
Ribbon Candy: A Sweet Holiday Tradition with a Twist
Nov 28, 2025
—
If you’ve ever unwrapped a box of ribbon candy at Christmas and thought, How in the world do I eat this without shattering it into a million pieces?, you’re not alone. This delicate, swirly confection has been a holiday staple for generations, but its story goes way beyond being the world’s prettiest (and most fragile) candy.
A Sweet Start in the 1800s
Ribbon candy has been around since the 19th century, first made by hand in small candy shops across the United States. Originally, it wasn’t just for eating—it was also used as a fancy decoration in shop windows, showing off the skills of master candy makers. Back then, they shaped each piece by hand, pulling and twisting the warm sugar into those iconic ripples before it hardened into its signature glossy finish.
The Peppermint Classic
While ribbon candy comes in all sorts of flavors, peppermint has long been the star of the show—especially around Christmas. By the early 1900s, it became a popular holiday gift, often tucked into stockings or given as a festive treat. It was the perfect way to share a little sweetness (and possibly break a tooth) with family and friends. Some people even used it to decorate Christmas trees, proving that it really was the candy that could do it all.
Sweet, swirly, and just sharp enough to make your dentist nervous.
A Machine-Made Marvel
As charming as the hand-pulled versions were, making ribbon candy was a seriously labor-intensive process. That all changed in the 1940s when candy companies started using machines to shape and fold the candy, making it easier (and more affordable) to produce. Today, you can still find classic peppermint ribbon candy at holiday markets and in nostalgic candy shops, often in the same festive tins your grandparents probably had.
Ever wonder how ribbon candy gets those perfect curls?
Click on the image below and prepare to be mesmerized.
A Nostalgic Treat
Even though ribbon candy might not be the easiest snack to eat (is there a proper technique, or do we all just wing it?), it remains a beloved holiday tradition. Whether you’re cracking off a piece to nibble, using it to decorate your gingerbread house, or just admiring its festive swirls, it’s a sweet reminder of simpler times—when Christmas candy came in fancy tins and didn’t melt in your pocket.
So, the next time you see a box of ribbon candy, take a moment to appreciate its long and twisty history. And maybe grab a few extra pieces… because let’s be honest, at least one is bound to shatter before you even get it out of the box.
Unwrapped joy, slightly shattered dreams. (But still delicious.)
Our Inspiration
At Penny & Rose, peppermint ribbon candy was the inspiration behind our Merry Mint seasonal fragrance. Every Christmas, Penny would gift his beloved Rose a box of the festive treat, its crisp peppermint scent filling their home with holiday cheer. Of course, whether Rose actually got to enjoy much of it is another story—between the kids and grandkids sneaking pieces when she wasn’t looking, it’s safe to say that ribbon candy didn’t last long. But the sweet memories (and the scent of peppermint) lingered, which is exactly what we wanted to capture with Merry Mint—a seasonal fragrance full of holiday warmth, nostalgia, and maybe just a hint of mischief!
We hope you enjoyed this sweet trip down memory lane as much as Rose enjoyed her peppermint ribbon candy—when she could actually get to it before the grandkids did!
Whether you’re snacking on the real thing or just enjoying the festive scent, here’s to keeping the holiday spirit (and maybe a few unbroken pieces of candy) alive!
Have a ribbon candy memory? Did your grandma keep a tin on the table—or did you sneak all the peppermint swirls before anyone noticed? We’d love to hear your story—scroll down and share it with us!
Shop Our Collection
Shop merry mint
Read Story merry mint
'Twas the Night
Jan 10, 2020
—
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all ‘bout the farm
Not a creature was stirring, in the house or the barn
The presents were wrapped, all under the glow
Of twinkling lights and red ribbon bows
The children were quiet, not even a peep!
While visions of sugarplums danced in their sleep
And Rose in her gown and I in my socks,
Had just settled in with a ding of the clocks
When out in the field there arose such a squeal
I sprang from my bed like a coil of steel
Away to the porch I ran like a horse
Flew open the door to discover the source
The moon, like a spotlight, shone bright on the snow
And danced through the pine where cardinals sing low
When what to my sleep-weary eyes did reveal
But a pig racing past with a sleigh at its heel
With flashes of red and jingling bells
Cracks of a whip and jolly old yells
Whatever it was landed flat on our roof
With a “Ho Ho Ho” and the stamp of a hoof
I hollered to Rose, “Come quick, looky here!”
But she said, “Oh it’s Santa, he comes every year”
With no time for questions, I ran for a ladder
And hoisted it high with a chorus of clatter
Ascending each rung, my heart skipped a beat
Would this be the night that we finally meet?
So up to the housetop, I quickened my pace
With toes made of ice and sweat on my face
Once at the peak, I peered over the gutter
And all of my words came out in a stutter
For there at the chimney stood jolly St. Nick
I though to myself, “Could this all be a trick?”
But then down he went toward the lights of our tree
“It really is him!” I sang with such glee
“On Roy, On Kathie, On Rosie, On Wayne
Awake from your sleep, and move like a train!”
The kids wiped their eyes with a sigh and a yawn
But St. Nick and his sleigh were already gone
The cookies were crumbs, the chimney in rubble
“Out to the lawn!” I sang, “On the double!”
And there in the sky, silhouetted by stars
Was the sleigh headed east to countries afar
We all stood in wonder, our mouths open wide
While our poor little pigs had run off to hide
It was hours ‘til dawn, but we just couldn’t wait
So into the house we scurried post haste
And under the twinkling glow of the pine
Was a single small box and a bow of red twine
“Well, go ahead Penny,” Rose cooed with a grin
Her eyes basked in lamplight and love of her kin
And inside the box was a cold copper cent
Etched 1937, “My how the years went!”
Alive in my palm, I clenched my right fist
To keep it secure and thoughtfully wish
For kindness and health and goodwill to flow
From our farm to the city to the valley below
For days to be merry, magical, and bright—
A happy Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!
If you enjoyed this poem, we’d love to hear your thoughts! It’s our own version of 'Twas the Night, told through the magic of a Penny & Rose Christmas Eve.
Shop 'Twas the Night
© 2022 Caitlin Riley
-
Previous
- Page 1 of 2
- Next
Invalid password
Enter