ANY OLD DAY IN THE WINTER | By: Liz Clayman
Growing up on a farm in Maine, the holidays were always magical. Mom spent weeks weaving wreaths and baking sweets. Our horse hauled our favorite Fir tree back to the house, making a wild swishing pattern in the snow behind her. Cinnamon buns were in the over before sun up, and Santa always delivered better than my brother and I could ever imagine.
The year I moved to New York City began the evolution of my family’s holiday tradition. I’d just graduated college earlier that year. I was busy, broke, and completely flailing.