Making New Holiday Memories

All you need is love and green chalk

Sometimes love looks like green chalk.

“Draw a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”
My grandson Landon pointed from me to his blackboard.

Dutifully, chalk in hand, I tried to recreate that long-gone species. Large head. Small, nearly useless arms. Big body. Long tail.

But wait!

Silly me. The T-Rex had to be done in green chalk. Not purple. No way!

“Erase it, Nonie,” he commanded.

So I did. And I tried again.

A sacred calling

I drew a creature over and over, until I produced a scribble that passed for a green T-Rex. Why? Because being a grandparent-on-duty—G.O.D., as opposed to parent-on-duty or P.O.D.—is a sacred calling. For these short years, I do my best (within reason and good sense) to fulfill Landon’s wishes.

Soon enough, he’ll encounter disappointment. Someone will insist on purple chalk when honestly—doesn’t everyone know a T-Rex is green? But for this brief interlude, I’ve been granted god-like powers: the ability to offer love, protection, and a sense of agency. To show him that the people who care for him can be trusted. That the world, at least for now, is responsive and kind.

I hope that foundation carries him forward. That he’ll choose friends wisely, find passions that light him up, and surround himself with people who want the best for him.

Shouldn’t we all have that?

The truth is, not everyone grows up feeling that kind of safety. And for many of us—especially around the holidays—old memories have a way of resurfacing.

I remember one Christmas when my father refused to come downstairs to open presents. Until he did, Christmas couldn’t “start.” My sisters and I sat around the tree, waiting. Hoping. Frozen in place.

Whatever the reason, the lesson we absorbed was simple and lasting: one person could drain the joy from a room.

Old memories, and how to override them

Even now, as December rolls around, those memories sometimes crowd in. But every year, I make a conscious effort to replace them with moments from the here-and-now. It’s like swapping one stubborn earworm for another—repeating a new tune until it finally sticks. It takes effort. I wish it didn’t, but it does.

So how do you override a troubled past?

You make new plans.

Last night, I suggested we drive around to look at holiday lights. My daughter-in-law Chelsea was game, and Landon was thrilled. House after house glowed with color and creativity. And then, from the back seat, Landon shouted, “Deer! A deer!”

I assumed it was an inflatable. Or a wire frame wrapped in lights.

But it wasn’t.

It was a real, live doe—ears flicking, head lifting as she turned toward the sound of the car. We sat still, watching as she calmly went back to munching grass, pausing now and then to look at us with mild curiosity.

It felt like a small miracle.

No matter what your Christmases have looked like in the past, it’s never too late to make new memories. Landon reminded me of that last night. And in doing so, he reminded me why I write cozy mysteries.

I believe in happy endings. In kindness. In the quiet magic of ordinary moments. And in a world where goodness sometimes needs a little help finding its way, I like to imagine—on the page, at least—that it always does.

Sending you my holiday love, Joanna

PS — In the Chat function, let’s talk! ⭐ Have you ever had a small moment—maybe with a child, a pet, or a stranger—that helped replace a difficult memory with a better one? I’d love to hear it.