One tradition my parents kept each year was sending Christmas cards to friends and family. Across almost sixty years of marriage, they may have missed only two or three holiday seasons. From a kid's perspective, it was a great tradition. There was a payoff to their efforts: we received holiday cards in return. Through the month of December and part way into January, fetching the mail from the mailbox was a treat. Any envelope addressed with a 'Mr. and Mrs.' that included 'and family' or 'and children ' or 'and daughters', we were allowed to open without parental presence. Inside the envelopes were pictures of the Nativity, or Three Wise Men trimmed in gold. There were glittered illustrations of snow, bells, holly, Christmas trees, angels, stars, ornaments, partridges and Santa Clauses.

Despite my notoriously bad penmanship, I was allowed to address the cards our parents were sending out, and that way got to know the names of their distant friends. (When I was grown up, I finally met some of these mysterious folks with the very familiar names.) My parents over time became sensitive to the different cultures their friends belonged to, and sometimes bought Hanukkah cards, or cards with more inclusive 'season's greetings'. As I addressed envelopes today, I thought about what a great tradition this is: the colorful stamps, the remembering each friend and family member with ink against paper.