By Jean Kingston 

I wore a scratchy red and black plaid dress, white nylon tights and stiff black patent Mary Janes, but my discomfort was no match for my great anticipation.  I was six years old, and my family was headed to my dad’s company Christmas party.  There was probably music, food, desserts and games, but what I remember is the brilliantly ornamented tree and the gifts sitting under its branches.  Late in the evening, the adults distributed the gifts in a painstakingly eternal process.