One Christmas Eve in the '60s, very late in the evening, as my brothers, sister, and I tried to sleep through the anticipation of Santa's arrival, my dad's fire monitor went off. It was a loud, screeching thing that we all hated because it squawked and chirped through loud static every night and rarely announced anything exciting. Dad was a volunteer firefighter for our small village, as were most of the male inhabitants, and the women were in the Ladies Auxiliary. Though I was the eldest of my siblings at 11 years old, I was unfairly restricted from fighting fires yet, so I didn't have the high regard for the monitor that my dad did. It was his responsibility to torture his family with that contraption, and he took his responsibility seriously.

The weather had been excessively frigid, and most of the village depended on their fireplaces for supplemental heat, so when the monitor announced a chimney fire, it wasn't a large surprise. Chimney fires were the most common disasters in our town. They were usually minor, with only smoke damage to the home.

Dad got out of bed and dressed warmly. I was waiting for him, dressed in my snowsuit and boots. If it wasn't a school night, he sometimes let me come along and observe these adventures, and I was hoping that tonight would be like that despite it being Christmas. I was wide awake anyway because visions of the HO train set that I'd asked for were crowding out hopes of sleep. He saw me waiting, thought about it, then nodded, and we sped off on the icy road to the fire only a mile or so away. I could hear the siren of the village's fire truck echoing off the snowy hillsides as it raced from its garage near the community center and church.

Grandpa and the 10 Tobys (all of his dogs were named Toby) were already at the fire when we arrived. It always amused me to see Grandpa in his fire helmet. The family at the scene huddled in the yard and were all accounted for. The Tobys knew to stay out of the way in the back of Grandpa's pickup truck, and I joined them; they were excited by the activities but not unused to them because Grandpa took them everywhere he went, from dental appointments to house fires. Other firefighters began arriving in their family cars and on snowmobiles, and soon, the firetruck itself barreled into the drive, and everyone began uncoiling hoses and removing ladders.

This wasn't a common chimney fire, though. The roof had caught fire around the chimney, and flames were emerging from some of the upstairs windows, whose glass had shattered in the heat. The family was watching, silent and dumbfounded by the spectacle. They were the Thompsons and had been renting the house from Old Man Wilkins for only a couple of weeks.

Wilkins was there, too, helping with the hoses, and his mood was dour. Mr. Thompson worked at the university swine barns 20 miles away, learning how to make pigs bigger, and he'd only started the job recently. His family liked living in the country, so when they moved from Ohio, they thought they'd test the country living in our village. They didn't appear to be enjoying it at the moment.

... firefighters began arriving in their family cars and on snowmobiles

Two firemen were spraying the roof and upstairs windows, but the ladder guys, including my dad, didn't have much to do yet. They'd already extinguished and removed the logs from the fireplace and closed the flue. They'd normally get up on the roof, ladder it, and lower a hose with a chimney nozzle into the chimney, but with the roof and upper story engulfed, they were temporarily grounded. Eventually, they'd have their turns with the hoses and, like the others, become human icicles from the back spray.

It was bitterly cold, no more than -15°. Fresh hose-water icicles hung from the roof's edges, and sheets of ice adhered to the siding where the fire wasn't melting it. Grandpa's beard was encrusted with ice, especially his mustache, and the smoke from the Falcon pipe that was always perched beneath it wasn't nearly as dense as his breath in this weather. The concrete walkway was treacherously slippery and took everyone who crossed it for a little slide, no matter how prepared they were.

My dad led the two Thompson kids to Grandpa's pickup, where the Tobys and I watched the commotion. They were a couple of years younger than me. "Would you keep an eye on them?" my dad asked. "Here are some blankets. This is Abigale, and this is Matthew."

... with the roof and upper story engulfed, they were temporarily grounded

The Tobys warmed up to the newcomers immediately, and the kids seemed to adjust quickly. We were soon making snowballs from the snow on the roof of the cab and tossing them into the air for the Tobys to catch, which was hilarious because the extra-cold snow didn't pack well, and the snowballs exploded into powder when the Tobys tried to snatch them out of the air. All their muzzles were frozen and white. Abigale and Matthew, though concerned about their home burning down, couldn't keep from laughing after a few minutes with the dogs.

Mr. and Mrs. Thompson were having less fun. Old Man Wilkins, distressed at seeing the house his father had built burning, was interrogating Mr. Thompson.

"Have you ever used a fireplace before?" he asked. "You know not to use damp logs or to stack the fire too high, right? You weren't burning cardboard or trash in the fireplace, were you?"

"I know how to use a fireplace," said Mr. Thompson. "I've always lived with one."

Grandpa overheard some of the exchange and joined them. "You trying to shift the blame, Wilkins?" he said.

... the snowballs exploded into powder when the Tobys tried to snatch them out of the air

"How can this be my fault?"

"Not saying it is," said Grandpa, pulling off a glove to tamp his tobacco with his forefinger. "But rather than Thompson here misusing the fireplace, isn't it possible that the chimney was overdue for a cleaning and caked with creosote? Did you clean it before renting the place?"

"Well, no, I didn't think of it." Seeing Grandpa smoking, Mr. Wilkins pulled his own pipe from a pocket. Grandpa lit a match for him. The smoke of their pipes, backlit by the house fire, drifted upward in a comforting golden haze while in the background, angry black smoke poured from the house in contrast. Mr. Thompson looked wistfully at the front door. "My pipe and tobacco are in there," he said. "I'm tempted to dash inside and grab them."

"That would be unwise," said Grandpa.

"We would tackle you before you got there," said Mr. Wilkins, "and none of us wants that. This ground is frozen as solid as granite."

"I know," said Mr. Thompson. "I could just use a smoke about now, is all." Grandpa and Mr. Wilkins nodded in commiseration.

The smoke of their pipes, backlit by the house fire, drifted upward

It took two hours to extinguish the fire and inspect the house for hot spots. The building was utterly ruined. The roof of the attached garage had collapsed, most of the windows were broken, and everything inside and out was covered in soot and sheathed in ice. We had grown bored with our position in Grandpa's truck, and now that things had settled, wandered freely, ignored by the adults who were standing around discussing the event and drinking the coffee that the Ladies Auxiliary had brought to the scene.

I was building a small enclosure of icicles in the snow when Mr. and Mrs. Thompson wandered by in deep discussion. It's funny how adults don't notice kids. They seem to think that kids can't understand whatever they're talking about.

"What now?" said Mrs. Thompson. "Christmas is ruined, we have nowhere to stay, no family, and we can't go anywhere because the car is under that collapsed roof. We can't rent a car or hotel room on Christmas."

"There must be a hotel in the city that will take us in," said Mr. Thompson. "Everyone is safe, and that's the best Christmas gift we could have. I'll see if we can use a phone someplace and call around."

The firemen had finished reloading the firetruck and cleaning the scene as best they could. My dad approached the Thompsons and said, "You folks about ready to leave? You're staying with us tonight. My wife has already prepared a room for you."

"That's very generous," said Mr. Thompson, "but we couldn't impose on your Christmas. You have family things to do. If we could just use your phone, I'm sure I can make some kind of arrangements."

"Oh, you won't find better arrangements. Everything shuts down for Christmas, and we're happy to have you."

"That's so kind of you," said Mr. Thompson. He looked at the blackened shambles of the house. "I guess we'll accept your hospitality. Thank you."

I rode back home with Grandpa and the Tobys, and the Thompsons rode with my dad. Mom had already prepared my room for the family. It was the largest bedroom after my parents' room, and I was accustomed to bunking with my brother when we had guests. He was a pain in the neck, but it was only one short night.

"... we can't go anywhere because the car is under that collapsed roof"

Santa must have visited while we were away because there were loads of new packages under the tree, a couple labeled for Matthew and Abigale. Santa certainly kept up on current events and was prepared.

Most of the night was gone so there wasn't much sleep before it was Christmas morning. We had hot cocoa and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls as we opened gifts. I was disappointed not to receive the HO train set I had requested and a little jealous when Matthew opened his gift and found the very model that I had wanted. My sister was likewise perturbed when Abigale received an Easy Bake Oven just like the one she had hoped for. But we were glad they had not been overlooked, and we had plenty of other toys to keep us occupied. Mrs. Thompson received a lovely charm bracelet, and Mr. Thompson was surprised to open his gift and find a packet of Half & Half and one of my dad's pipes that he had cleaned with rum. Grandpa was there, too, and the three men sat and smoked with contentment as they watched the morning festivities.

I worried that we might not have enough food to provide a Christmas dinner for everyone, but my mom and dad were way ahead of me and had made arrangements. When early afternoon rolled around, Mom packed all the Christmas fixings. It took two trips to get all 11 of us to the community center next to the firehouse. News traveled fast, and the whole village turned up with their family dinners to make the Thompsons feel more at home and valued.

I hadn't seen so many of the villagers in one place since the Apple Festival last October. Everyone enjoyed a remarkable pot-luck dinner. The variety was enormous, and I tried some dishes I was unfamiliar with. We had turkey and gravy with chestnut dressing, honey-glazed ham, beef wellington, roast goose, barbecue ribs, wild duck, venison, squirrel stew, pear and gorgonzola ravioli, cranberry salad, acorn squash, creamed spinach, artichoke/green bean casserole, corn pudding, manicotti, cauliflower salad, mashed sweet potatoes, honey-glazed carrots, fresh-baked dinner rolls with hand-churned butter, and loads more. I could barely move afterward and swore I'd never eat another morsel as long as I lived.

Mr. Thompson was surprised to open his gift and find a packet of Half & Half

Even the reclusive Middaugh brothers stopped by to drop off a couple of their homemade corncob pipes for Mr. Thompson, and other men in the village had brought a variety of tobaccos for him. "I've never had so much tobacco," he remarked. "I should burn my house down more often."

"Not one you rent from me, I hope," joked Old Man Wilkins.

Many had brought their musical instruments, and while the adults enjoyed music and dancing, the dozens of children played games and built a snow fort behind the community center. I don't recall ever having so much fun. Impromptu events always seem to be the best.

... other men in the village had brought a variety of tobaccos for him

The Thompsons quickly found another home in the village and chose to buy it, deciding that it was a good place to live. They became lifelong family friends and important community members, joining the volunteer fire company and the Ladies Auxiliary. For many years, Mr. Thompson was the scout leader for our local Boy Scout troop. Mrs. Thompson started a quilt-making society dedicated to recording village events in quilt form. Many are still displayed on the walls of the ancient community center.

That Christmas would become the event by which I measured other Christmases. The goodwill and friendliness made a lasting impression, and this time of year often finds me reminiscing about how Christmas can somehow turn horrible circumstances into positive experiences. It happens again and again, and even those of us who have lost our childhood wonder have to admit there's magic in the season.