Some families choose bright lights and bustling schedules at Christmas. This year, we chose something quieter. No waterparks. No venturing off to buy batteries or take advantage of sales. No packed schedules. We're trading dependable Wi-Fi, a dishwasher, and extra space for a small, remote cabin in northern Wisconsin.

It begins outside, where we strap on snowshoes. Some are modern, and some are made of wood and rawhide. These, the old bearpaws, creak a little, reminding us that our relatives wore these same snowshoes. 

Years ago, our young cockapoo, Josie, bounded ahead through the drifts, leaping like a deer. The memory reinforces the idea that winter isn’t merely meant to be endured, but enjoyed.

Finding the perfect Christmas tree is also a cabin tradition. As we scout and debate, snow shaken from branches slips down collars and into boots. Eventually, the antique handsaw is handed to the youngest capable hands—this time a grandson, just as it once was handed to our son. That quiet transfer feels ceremonial, even if no one says a word.

Back indoors, the small tree is placed on a table. Christmas music hums from the old album playing on the stereo while popcorn pops and mulled cider warms on the stove. As we decorate, stories drift through the room along with the scent of pine. I explain how a former principal of Lake Delton School, Percy Seamans, and his wife once gave me this box of Santa ornaments from around the world. We hang them alongside handmade treasures the grandchildren have created over the years.

On Christmas Eve, cookies are set out for Santa and carrots for his reindeer. Stockings are hung from the fireplace mantel. On Christmas morning, the youngest wake far too early, faces bright with anticipation. No matter how many times you’ve seen it, there’s something incomparable about a child’s joy on Christmas morning.

After Christmas, we’ve arranged for a simple old-fashioned sleigh ride, the horses’ bells jingling as we glide along. I’m hoping for softly falling snow. Midway, we stop for hot chocolate by a crackling campfire, warming hands and cheeks.

Cross-country skis lean against the cabin, ready for groomed trails—or maybe a wilderness outing that prompts my retelling of a long-ago mishap involving thin ice, an unexpected plunge, and a lesson I learned about staying calm when things go wrong.

An ice shack is hauled out onto the lake—one used by my husband’s father—along with tip-ups, which I once used with my father. Inside the cozy shack, conversation ebbs and flows. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we sit quietly, remembering those who once shared these same crisp, beautifully blue-sky days.

Later, we bundle up once more. Snow forts rise. Snow angels appear. Snowmen take shape. A grandson blows bubbles into the frosty air, just like I once showed him, and we delight as the bubbles freeze, shimmer, and shatter. Simple wonders. Shared joy.

As the light fades, we cozy up in the small living room, glancing outside, hoping to see the traditional line of deer crossing the lake. We play cards or silly board games. If the night is clear, we end the day stargazing, relying on our daughter to point out the constellations overhead.

That’s how traditions survive—not because they’re elaborate or perfect, but because they’re repeated. Passed hand to hand. Story to story. Christmas to Christmas. Long after the snow melts, these moments remain—ready to be lived again and passed along.