Jesus Christ - Good tidings and great joy: protecting the heart of Christmas

T O M OM AND D AD .

Thank you for the most unique and inspiring upbringing. You taught us to work very hard and to fight for whats right. From you I learned to lean into the exhaustion of hard work, which turns out to be exhilarating.

And its fun to watch you live like every day is Christmas.

Our world needs more of that.

All this for me ? And I wasnt even very good!

My grandson, T RIPP E ASTON M ITCHELL , upon
seeing the presents beneath the Christmas tree, 2012

My dad, my aunt Carol, and my grandmother Marie in 1944, when they lived in North Hollywood.

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I remember one present specifically from Christmas 1968 in our tiny Gold Rush town of Skagway, Alaskathis sweet teddy bear, which I kept for years.

I ve never had to dream of a white Christmas.

Growing up in Alaska, I didnt have to imagine snow. It wasnt some romantic notion or a fluffy excuse to get out of school. It was something I shoveled from the driveway, threw at my brother, and ate with my sisters. I never thought of snow as a picturesque backdrop for Christmas cards that would politely melt away for safer New Years Eve parties. Our snow seemed relentless, heavy, and sometimes even threateninga force to be reckoned with, an ever-present reality that stole the sure footing on roadways, caused roofs to collapse, and made us children squeal in delight.

Though we were always guaranteed a white Christmas, the magic of the Last Frontier reached far beyond the stunning, icy backdrop. I grew up just three hundred miles from North Pole, Alaska. Okay, it isnt the true North Pole, but dont tell that to the hundreds of thousands of children whove sent letters there over the years. Alaska is the perfect place to watch for Santa and his reindeer, as the spectacular northern lights make them easier to spot. Theres something about the harsh, cold outdoors that makes opening Christmas presents by the fireplace so cozy.

Like many Americans, we have fun, long-standing family Christmas traditions. For years, we cut down our tree from our own, or friends, property. We plop the sometimes Charlie Brownlooking spruce in our living room, tether it with fish line, and decorate it with our variety of ornaments collected over the years: fat Santas, comically slender snowmen, pinecones topped with velvet ribbons, sticky sweet candy canes, and felt mittens with the kids lopsided names written on the backs in Sharpie markers. Oh, and we bake. Usually, my sisters, mom, daughters, and best girlfriends join me in the kitchen, and we bake until the smell of cinnamon rolls overtakes the aroma of our Alaska spruce.

We live out the old song, over the river and through the woods to grandmothers house we go, but with a more efficient method of travel. On icy Christmas Eves and that climactic next morning, we often jump on our snowmachines and wind our way around frozen natural trail markers and under the snow-covered branches of the cottonwood trees. One by one, we make our way through the woods and along the roadside, as gorgeous white powder kicks up around us and the frigid air bites any exposed skin on our faces. We glide through our valley embraced by majestic mountains with my family, occasionally startling a moose, passing caribou farther north, and hoping the kids in the back keep up. As governor, I was able to see even more jaw-dropping vistas throughout Alaska. But the most beautiful scenes were the ones Ive taken in through the lenses of my snowmachine goggles.

When we arrive at the homes of our friends and families, we frequently play Eskimo Bingo, a gift-swapping game and the only time we enthusiastically encourage the kids to be greedy. Everyone brings a wrapped gift for exchange and places it on the floor. With a timer ticking, we roll dice in a pie tin and hope to get doubles so the gift-grabbing can begin. Each person gets to steal presents from the center of our circle, even ones already nabbed. This might sound like a fun parlor game, but it gets intense. When someone unwraps something good and places it on the floor, even for a moment, its fair game. One year, a highly coveted box of homemade chocolates from a bakery in Indiana caused us to play well into the night. (I ended up with that one because Im the mom, and I refused to let the game end until it ended well.) Some years, Ive ended up with one of the gag giftsa singing-fish wall plaque, a dusty old fossil from Dads garage shelf, a warped tin sign that reads, G IVE M E A B EER , THE I N-LAWS A RE H ERE .

But Todd makes sure my real Christmas gifts are amazing.

Hes always given good gifts.

When we were seventeenand my friends had already received Polo sweaters, the newest Go-Gos vinyl record, or Gloria Vanderbilt jeans from their boyfriendsTodd surprised me with a traditional Eskimo grass-woven basket and Alaska gold nugget earrings from a native village near his hometown. In that tradition, he has since given me a beautiful red manual ice auger for ice fishing on the lake, a .30-06 rifle, a pair of hockey skates, snowshoes for hard-core winter workouts, and cords of seasoned spruce for my fireplace. (I so appreciate that one, as I have an unusual affinity for chopping and stacking my own wood. As the old saying goes: Chop your own wood and itll warm you twice.) No Christmas lilies or lavender bubble bath in the stocking from this dude, no sir. Hes as unique as his gifts. Ive tried to reciprocate with thoughtful presents, but all Todd wants is the same thing: gift cards for gas to keep his snowmachine, truck, and float plane topped off. Ahhh, I love that hes easy to please.

Last year, however, I think I was able to pull off a good one for him. To combat the anti-gun chatter coming from Washington, I surprised him with a nice, needed, powerful gun. I then asked him for a metal gun holder for my four-wheeler. Not only was this small act of civil disobedience fun, it allowed me to finally live out one of my favorite lines from a country song: Hes got the rifle, I got the rack.

But it goes without saying that one of the most enjoyable parts of Christmas has always been giving gifts to the children. Theres nothing like watching their sleepy eyes turn wide when they see the presents under the tree. When Track and Bristol were little, I was overflowing with energy and all those new mom ideas, so I decided to lead them to their gifts gradually by creating Christmas scavenger hunts. Id give them the first clue in their stockings, which would lead them to the second clue, which would lead them to the third. It was delightful to see their growing anticipation as they got closer to their big present, which might have been a BB gun, a doll, or the perfect lunch box (anything besides new underwear and more wool socks). Yes, the scavenger hunt added a little adventure to an already amazing day.

Would you believe that more than twenty years later, this tradition still lives on in the Palin household? Even though the kids are now receiving electronics and clothes instead of Hot Wheels, I still create a labyrinth of clues for the Christmas-morning gift hunts. I love tradition, but I have to admit: Its kicking my butt. Ive hidden clues in every cookie jar, out in the woodpile, on the gate, under chunks of wild game in the freezer, on the trucks trailer hitch, and even on the dogs collar. Not only have I run out of good hiding places, but Im sure the kids are absolutely annoyed they still have to spend those cold, cold Christmas mornings searching high and low for their next clue. So I ask myself, Cant I just please stay in my pajamas, sip hot coffee, and look out over Lake Lucille while the kids open their presents in front of the warm fireplace, please? But mom guilt nudges me awake at dawn to hide clues in bird feeders and bathtubs, so I can keep the magic alive at least one more year.