It was December in southeast Kansas and a thin layer of snow was on the ground. My stepmother was busy making cookies and sprinkling Christmas colored sprinkles on top of them when my seven-year-old sister, Sylvia, and I came bounding through the front door. And as usual, we were hungry. There’s something about being in school all day that works up a good appetite.
Mom handed us a couple of cookies and poured a glass of milk for each of us. Our preschool sister and kindergarten brother joined us for a snack. As we sat around the table, Sylvia eyed one of her Christmas cookies, examining each side of it, and then said matter-of-factly, “Mary isn’t having Christmas.”
