The Christmas train is a-comin’.

There’s no ETA here. Christmas won’t arrive at some estimated time – it always arrives exactly on schedule.

The only problem with that scenario is my mental picture of the train, with me running after it, unable to catch up. Again. I’m going to try as always, but my promises of traditional perfection get traditionally broken during Christmas season.

For example, I always dream of a fully lighted house, the envy of the neighborhood. This year, I’m throwing in the towel early – that’s never going to happen.

And I dream of stacks of tins, filled with mega-dozens of homemade cookies and buttercrunch. But the years of baking until midnight are past. I’ll settle for a few rum balls and sugar cookies.

I’ve also given up hope that I will find all the stashed “buy ahead” small presents or stocking stuffers. That never happens until April.

During the year, if I happen to see “just the right thing” to surprise a grandchild or friend, I pick it up. I then stash it in a logical place where I know I can put my hand on it at Christmas. Except I can never remember where that place is.

A few years ago, I really tried to get practical about this. I established a cabinet in the guest room as the gift locker – just to combat this stowaway amnesia. The plan was that I would be able to open that cabinet in mid-December and find all the little trinkets and special goodies that I’d set aside.

It sorta worked the first year, although not everything made it to the second-floor guest room. And then along came 2020 – and nothing worked.

Last year, like so much of America, we didn’t really have a Christmas. Instead, we both had COVID. So, no family. No tree. No decorations. No breakfast casserole. No stockings. No present opening. No Christmas dinner. No lazy afternoon with games, new books and the simple joys of gathered family. Nuthin’.

Like so many people whose families live at a distance, our Christmas was music, television, and just the two of us. Period. Having COVID had so invaded our abilities, that we had hotdogs for Christmas dinner. In our pajamas. Pretty pathetic.

My mother lectured me – throughout my life, I might add – about not wearing a hat, mittens, or boots. She always ended with “If you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything.” Her words never rang truer than last Christmas. She wasn’t here for Covid, but I heard echoes of her scolding all last winter, as we worked our way back from the illness.

The biggest gift I received last Christmas, was an appreciation of what we had come to expect from the holidays. And I began to understand how relatively unimportant those festive trappings really are – the tree, the lights, the food, the fun. Lovely? Yes. Heartwarming? Of course. Necessary? Not really – when being apart from loved ones loomed so large.

Frankly, we’ve reached that stage where we don’t really need anything, or even want very much.

I do love pulling small, fancy candies or hand creams out of my stocking – that’s a special treat. And I always appreciate a coveted book. But I don’t need clothes, kitchen gadgets, or even one more tchotchke for the house – especially when we’re working so hard to reduce our inventory.

The gifts dear Richard and I hope for are simple. Some quiet time to enjoy the beauty of the season and appreciate God’s blessings. The delight of lively, loving family visiting for as long as they can stay. No visits to the emergency room. And Christmas weekend in which I’ve found most of the stocking stuffers and haven’t burned any cookies.

Small pleasures. I’ll take that.

I hear the train whistle. It’s still coming – 16 more days.

Marcy O’Brien lives in Warren, Pa., with her husband, Dear Richard, and Finian their Maine Conn cat. She can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.