I recently saw an old black-and-white picture posted on Facebook of a group of long-ago youngsters seated by an old-fashioned Christmas tree. It was easy to picture myself in the photo. Literally. I was the chubby 3-year-old blondie sitting in front with white stockings, black Sunday shoes and a puzzled look on my face. I might have been wondering why I was on the far left of the group while my three siblings were on the right. I might have been wondering why the festivities were halted for an annoying picture-taking moment. Most likely, I was wondering when Santa would come.

Santa always came to this party — the annual Christmas party at my grandparents’ home. Somehow, some way, all eight of Dad’s siblings with their large families and their families’ families squeezed into a tiny, ancient two-bedroom, one-bathroom farmhouse to be together. That yearly event is one of the most cherished Christmas memories of all my growing up.

Staring at that photo (posted by a cousin asking for help to identify some of the faces) brought back forgotten memories. The greys of the wallpaper became green and maroon. The piney smell of the locally cut Christmas tree wafted back. The floral pattern of the carpet became shades of brown and green. My brother’s shirt was blue-and-white plaid again; my own little dress, a pale green. Best of all, I sat surrounded by cousins I’d seen there the year before and would see there again the next year.

Smells and tastes came drifting back. Every family arrived bearing homemade salads, meats, breads and desserts to spread across a laden kitchen table and the countertop. The aunts knew how to cook and outdid themselves for this gathering.

Christmas carols crooned in the background, reminding us “There’s no place like home for the holidays.” Mixed into the music was the chatter. Relatives who hadn’t seen each other since last year’s party couldn’t talk enough. Multiple conversations kept the noise level high. We cousins slid into corners and under the tree to avoid being stepped on and to watch the grown-ups without being in the way. We waited impatiently for the moment when the music was shut off and the carols began.

We gamely sang along, yearning for the moment when, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” started up. We never got past “He’s making a list and checking it twice” before the sound of jingling harness bells and a hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho!” hit our ears while butterflies hit our bellies. Was it really? Could it be? Yes! Yes, he is here! Bursting through the door came Old St. Nick himself — the only person to ever enter Grandpa’s house without permission. We children took our turn to sit on his lap, whisper dreams into his ear, feel his lovely beard against our faces, and experience that bodywide moment of perfect love for him, for the feeling he brought, for the magic of Christmas.

That photo is proof that keeping the Christmas magic alive is worth the effort. Those parties were not easy to pull off year after year. But Grandma and Grandpa did it because they knew how that magic binds families and strengthens their faith. It rekindles hope in children and longing in adults, invites us to reflect on our good times and nudges us to bring them back. It makes friends of enemies, prompts forgiveness, restores hope and whispers comfort through the hard times. And it brings us back to the reason for the season of Christmas.

Once we become the adults, everything changes. We inherit the burden/blessing of perpetuating those magical memories. It’s now our turn to host the parties, bake cookies, deliver treats to neighbors, go caroling, visit the lights, serve at the food bank, watch Christmas movies, deck the halls, wrap gifts, set up the nativity, share the Christmas story — and do it all with the children. It’s how we grow the Christmas magic in them — the next generation of keepers.

We do it for the children with us, the Child within us and the children yet to come.

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.

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