When I stretch my brain back to Christmases of yore, I inevitably arrive at the one pictured above, and all the others we once celebrated at Leon Hall.

But first, this one, which was our first one. The grainy black and white photo was taken back in 1981 by my estimable mentor Dwight Tracy, the one-time editor and publisher of the long-expired Mission Valley News. I only know this because my oldest son, Oren Connell, is perched on Santa’s lap and he was born in May of that year. Sitting on Santa’s other knee is the jolly gent’s daughter, who doesn’t seem at all perturbed by her dad’s suddenly long beard and strange get-up.

We were still new to Charlo then, having settled on a little ranch south of town in 1979. As newcomers, we had few friends, and I’ll wager the children of most of them were in this photo: an eager crop of Knudsens, Webers, Myhres, Hyvonens and Steindorfs.

On those dark, star-crusted nights, Roy Weible often drove his team of draft horses several miles so he could pull a wagon, stacked with bales, bundled babies, and caroling parents around the neighborhood. Of course, there was hot chocolate, warm cider and cookies indoors, while adult libations were passed around outside.

Leon’s big double barrel wood stove roared and by the end of the evening the old schoolhouse felt like a sauna, regardless of the polar-esque temperatures outside.

As the years passed, and our kids became older and not quite so gullible, we worked hard to fool them – or at least keep ‘em entertained. One year we staged the tale of The Little Dragon by Jay O’Callahan, starring a small green dragon (played by Susan Gardner) and myself as Elizabeth, who encouraged the Little Dragon to save the frozen world by breathing fire upon it.

Another year I actually authored a play that included an appearance by reindeer (dads dressed up in burlap with antlers precariously attached to their brows, and fortified by the aforementioned libations) and the elementary school principal masquerading as Santa. Unfortunately, that’s all I remember about my first and only debut as a playwright.

A few of those dear people who made Christmas at Leon so magical are gone now. And those little kids expecting a goody bag are all grown, many with kids of their own eagerly awaiting Santa.

But if I bend my ear toward Charlo, I can still hear the clop of hooves and creak of wagon wheels on a snow-covered rural road, the sweet voices of carolers lifting into the night sky and a deep Ho-Ho-Ho from the Man in Red, as he saunters in the door at Leon Hall.