The photo was taken on Christmas morning, 1944, as our country was engulfed in the most terrible war. The Battle of the Bulge offensive had begun the day before; and just days before that, in the Pacific, an enormous typhoon struck the U.S. Navy fleet, and nearly 800 sailors were lost.

But for Ruth and Bud Roesing, in their southside Chicago apartment, it must have been a special Christmas of a very different sort. They’d become parents rather late in life, bringing home a two-month old baby in July. I grew up with stories of the shortages brought about by the war, but obviously, as the photo shows, stuffed animals weren’t rationed.

My dad had escaped both world wars, too young for One and too old for Two. I claim status as a War Baby (certainly not a Boomer!), but more from birth than upbringing. The only war stories in my childhood were those funny-in-retrospect tales of scrambling to find baby gear when suddenly they were informed that a baby girl was available for adoption.

A war baby for sure. Unbeknownst to Ruth and Bud, for they were gone when I finally found out I was the result of a brief liaison between a sailor and a student nurse. The only reason they even met was because he’d been sent to South Bend for officer training (90 Day Wonders they were called) in June 1943 where she was studying to be a nurse.

It must have been August, that “liaison”, for by September he was gone, on his way to the invasion at Anzio where he commanded a landing craft. He survived the war and came home to a law career and great accolades. His family has had no interest in knowing about me.

She left nursing studies to carry me, returned to finish a year later, and flew to Pasadena to start a new life. Her accolades were of the less celebrated kind, the expressions of love and admiration I read in her funeral guest book; she died at 43, a mother of five (six, though only she knew of me), a school nurse, a good woman. Her family has welcomed me from our first contact.

Adoptees are great at fantasizing. We grow up imagining our real parents; upon actually growing up, I changed “real” to “birth”. Ruth and Bud, as my first Christmas bounty shows, were my real parents from the get go.

Now, as my 75th Christmas looms, the holiday has a changed tenor. Preparing for Rosey’s annual holiday program at the Library last week, I spoke about what Christmas is like at the other end of life:

Christmas in most houses, especially those with children, is a production. Complete with the stage set -- the tree, the candles, the angels, the blow-up snowman, the Elf living on the shelf; the music, that endless loop of tunes we can’t escape, and the script, those traditions each household follows faithfully every year.

In my house I was the director, the stage manager, the prop master, the costume maker. Christmas was serious business; December was exhausting.

All to provide the Magic for the object of these elaborate preparations – the children.

Before we knew it, the children grew up. Oh, they came back for the holidays even as 20-somethings, but then came marriage and their children, and in the wink of an eye, we’re watching our offspring produce their own brand of Christmas.

They hang their favorite childhood ornaments, pilfered from our collection, on their tree, bake the goodies I used to make for them, maybe even read The Night Before Christmas like Wally did. They oversee their own little ones hang their stockings and put out Santa’s milk and cookies, oh and a carrot for the reindeer.

Their traditions are a hybrid of his family and hers. If we, the grandmas and grandpas, are lucky or live close enough we’ll be included in the festivities. But now, we’re just the audience to the show, applauding, encouraging the magic, even tearing up at appropriate moments, all the while holding in the powerful emotions the Christmas rituals evoke in us elders.

Yes, the rituals. The Christmas Eve bottle of Baileys; furtively wrapping packages at the last minute; excited children waking us up at the crack of dawn; coffee by the fire as the stockings are ransacked. The Christmas breakfast complete with mimosas and special bacon, the children hopped up on their stocking candy.

Then, in my house, the afternoon let down, remembering those quiet hours after everyone left and we’d settle in with our new books by the fire. A ritual it’s hard to duplicate.

I watched my own father watching us with our little ones, his first Christmas without my mother. His profound sadness that day still touches me across the decades. Now it’s my turn, and this won’t even be my first one as a single.

In fact, I didn’t really even intend to have a tree this year. Taking down last year’s I told myself it was the last. I even said good-bye to my well-loved and tattered ornaments, wrapped them up extra well and stored the boxes in the furthest corner of the barn loft.

But I hadn’t counted on the pull of Don French’s trees, “fog-fed” (as one happy customer put it) growing in a field down by the shore. My partner/companion/friend (we still don’t know how to name our relationship) has sold some 50 of the trees that he and Jean planted and that she tended, yet another emotional layer that Christmas smacks us with.

So without really meaning to I chose a tree for me, he cut it down, and we carried it up the field and across the brook. We set it up together, and later that night I wrapped it in lights.

“That’s all I’ll do this year, just lights.” But I said it silently, and knew I didn’t mean it.

Then my son, the oldest, the one who made me a mother, came by the other night with his girls. It was an occasion since he’s also the one with wanderlust; we don’t see each other nearly often enough.

I brought in the boxes of ornaments from the barn, and my granddaughters went to work. As each little figure, fragile glass ball or sparkly, tinsely thing took its place on my perfect tree, it was if those girls, -- the next generation – were stepping up to take over our family’s Christmas.

As they should.

Christmas Eve

A candlelight Christmas Eve service is magical, a wonderful way to come back down from all the hullabaloo of decorating and wrapping and baking that’s become such a big part of the holiday. Come to church to greet your neighbors, sit with the family, sing the lovely old carols, and remember that love is at the heart of it all:

United Christian Church’s service begins at 4 p.m.; doors open at 3:30. UCC is at 18 Searsmont Road in the Center.

Bayshore Baptist Church’s service is at 6 p.m. Bayshore is just north of the Beach on Atlantic Highway.

Whether you’re a regular church goer or not you’ll be warmly welcomed at church on Christmas Eve!

Library

The library will be closed Tuesday and Wednesday, Dec. 24 and 25, as well as the next week, Dec. 31 and Jan.1. It will be open as usual, both weeks, on Friday and Saturday.

Friday, January 3 at 11 a.m. Jessica Day will hold her monthly Family Music program for infants and children up to the age of five and their parents, grandparents and siblings.

This popular program, which the Library has been sponsoring for several years, now has a co-sponsor, Lincolnville Family Dentistry. By the way, the free hot chocolate at the tree lighting a few weeks ago was also thanks to L’ville Dentistry.