After eight decades my Christmas memories all run together like a collage, bits and pieces too varied to become one big composite of countless images.
Because our memories canât be tapped into by dates, like finding a photo in our cell phones, and because Christmas nowadays is not just one day out of 365, but a whole season, itâs impossible to be sure how old we were when we saw Santa for the first time. And we canât pinpoint which puppy love guy introduced us to the mistletoe legend. But most of our Christmas memories are tied to people ⦠family, friends, fellow worshippers, even familiar store clerks and the mailman. So it was with me when I heard of the death of Georgia writer, Terry Kay. I had been deeply touched and entertained, even inspired, by his writing for many years. He is just one the many blessings I experienced during my 20 years with the Woodstock Public Library. In one of my different positions there, I was allowed to arrange programs, and I came