But I had an active imagination and could play independently for hours, so my enjoyment of the holidays went beyond the usual. I dug my mom's old Christmas records out of the closet---three I especially remember: one by Perry Como, one by the Oak Ridge Boys, and one of instrumental music called "Holiday Strings"---and began listening to them long before the holiday season was near. I would line my Barbie Dolls up on my pink bedroom carpet and stand each one up to take her turn singing when the song on the record changed. I would read Christmas stories, then choose my favorite character and reenact the story quietly in my room. Lying on my bed with a notebook and pen, I would pretend I was a playwright before I ever knew the word "playwright," and would write out scripts for Christmas plays, including specific cues beside each character's name. I felt fascinated by silent Christmas Eve nights that transformed into joyous Christmas mornings with gifts under the tree, an emptied milk glass, and only cookie crumbs left on a plate. And my young heart was lured by the mystery of a divine baby in a manger who was somehow God's son, whose birth was so significant that angels burst into the sleepy shepherds' night and a sudden star caused wise men to embark on a lengthy journey.
