“I’d say this looks properly festive.”

I straightened my aching back and surveyed our house, decked to the halls for Christmas. Lights and garland graced every window and the archway between the living and dining rooms. The collection of cloth Santas adorned every table. (Leaving room for the coasters. We aren’t heathens, you know.) A stout and sturdy evergreen glistened in the corner, and the Vienna Boys Choir harmonies were wafting through the air. On the front doorknob hung a ridiculously large set of jingle bells, guaranteed to rattle the windows with every jangle when the door opened.

“I bought the cutest candle,” I said to Bob while rustling through the shopping bag. I held it up to him. It was two pieces, one a small resin fire truck and the other a figurine of Santa wearing a firefighter’s turn-out gear and helmet. Santa had his arms in a circle, as if holding on to something.

“Santa’s truck is not properly equipped,” Bob said critically. “And it has a hole in the hose bed.”

I punched him in the arm.

“Stop being a chief for a moment! It’s adorable. See—Santa goes on the candle. As it burns, he slides down to the truck. Like the pole at the fire house. Cute, huh?”

Bob rolled his eyes and started stacking the empty totes together for the return trip to the garage. My husband was chief of our city’s fire department, a habit of public service he picked up from his parents, both devoted to the volunteer department in their town. I looked forward to showing off my candle on Christmas Day.

And the day showed up quick, like it always does. I swear there were more days in December when I was a kid. It felt like 142 days of waiting before the magic dawn would appear. As an adult, some of that magic has morphed into an endless to-do list with more tasks than time, but it is still my favorite time of year.

My in-laws showed up two hours early, as was their norm. There was a fair amount of scrambling still going on, but the two of them simply got their coffee and settled into the living room to await the chaos of kids and presents. I showed Dad my clever candle, to which he replied, “That hose bed is no good with that hole in it.” Yes, sir, the apple did not even fall off the Barnes tree! Determined to not let their nay-saying diminish my joy, I lit the candle and set it on the hutch in the dining room.

We had a joyous morning, and shortly the living room looked like an earthquake’s aftermath, with wrapping paper, bags, ribbons, and essential instruction and warranty cards about to be accidentally pitched. Everyone was settling in for the day. The kids got a baseball gizmo they could throw a ball at and a voice would announce strike or ball. They hung it on the garage door. Complete with a brief version of the national anthem, the echo down our narrow driveway was loud enough to have the Murphy’s terrier standing at attention next door.

Bob was fussing in the kitchen as the kids piled in the door for drinks between innings, and my father-in-law was hunting up another cup of coffee. That’s when Dad turned around beneath that archway of garland and lights and matter-of-factly announced: “Fire.”

The top of the hutch had a singular, wide flame shooting skyward. Something red was dripping off the edge and onto the glass door below. I yelped. My step-daughter Angie shouted for her dad—I saw Bob glance around the corner and then raise one eyebrow.

This is life with Barnes men. Their level of composure borders on comatose. They simply refuse to respond to any crisis with an unleashing of wild emotion. They take action, calmly and without panic. I find this aspect of their character really irritating. I need a good, solid panic before I can address a situation. Yelling, flailing of arms, cursing—extra points if it is creative—and running around pointlessly is all part of my process.

Bob wordlessly smothered the flames with the kitchen extinguisher and assessed the damage to the hutch. There was a brief investigation into cause and origin, but I already knew the arsonist at work. Me. My adorable Santa candle had one design flaw. As the candle burned, Santa didn’t slide. He stubbornly clung to his position at the midpoint and the flame had no choice but to melt St. Nick into a grotesquely disfigured blob.

The next sound I heard was laughter, and I turned to find Dad, still in the same spot under the archway, sipping his coffee and chortling like an amused child.

“Dad!” I exclaimed, my heart still pounding in my chest, “Next time there’s a fire, could you raise your voice or something?”

He brushed my cheek with his knuckle, a gesture he often used to reassure me, and headed back to the couch and my comparably giggling mother-in-law. My husband tossed a kitchen towel over his shoulder and headed back to the roast beef. I stood alone with the smell of melted plastic in the air and the feeling that I had accidentally firebombed my own family on Christmas.

Mom and Dad are gone, but we still remember that day and Dad’s complete lack of reaction. It’s the way he lived his life—simply and without fuss. He was almost always happy. Never said a bad word about anybody. We really miss that laugh.

But life and family gatherings continue. I got the cutest doo-dad for this year…three angels that hang above four candles, and…