On the Second Day of a Feminine Christmas

I once had my own Princess phone, just like the lovely lady in the photograph—those graceful little telephones with numbers that glowed softly in the dark. Back then, calling someone felt almost ceremonial. You lifted the receiver and entered another world, one where voices traveled warm and close. No one seemed afraid of conversation then; the telephone wasn’t an intrusion but an invitation. And if a Christmas card didn’t make it into the mail, a phone call—steady, ringing, dependable—bridged the distance with a kind of magic.

I still remember the first Christmas I didn’t spend with my grandparents. I slipped away to my new husband’s childhood bedroom, the house hushed and unfamiliar, and dialed their number. The moment my grandfather answered with his familiar cheery “hello,” tears sprang to my eyes—how deeply I missed them. But marriage calls for gentle compromises, even at Christmastime. Puppy and Nana understood, of course, but my heart felt so heavy as I quietly replaced the receiver onto its cradle on that white December morning.

Now I send only a small handful of Christmas cards—just enough to let a few dear ones know they crossed my mind as the season gathered around us. And I save my phone calls for an even smaller circle. I’ve learned that mid-morning, once the rustle of wrapping paper has settled, is the perfect moment to say a gentle “Merry Christmas.” These chats aren’t long, nor do they need to be; they’re simply warm check-ins, chances to hear the lilt in someone’s voice as they tell me their plans, who they’ll be with, and to let them know I care.

In some ways, it saddens me that the telephone no longer carries our voices across the miles with the same excitement it once did. But I cherish the calls I still make on Christmas morning—the small handful that matter the most. To say hello, Merry Christmas, I love you and I remembered you…