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"A fire is a delightful thing, a companion and an inspiration. If my room were kept warm by some wretched modern contrivance of water pipes or heated air, would it be the same to me as that beautiful core of glowing fuel, which, if I sit and gaze into it, becomes a world of wonders?"

-- George Gissing, 20th-century British novelist and social critic

My childhood home on Redcoat Lane featured a wood-burning fireplace in front of which I spent untold hours mesmerized by warm, flickering flames and dancing shadows. At this time of year, the fireplace was particularly magical, complemented as it was by a handsomely adorned Christmas tree in our living room's opposite corner. Even now, despite the passage of decades, a crackling fire in the hearth conjures to my mind's eye the "world of wonders" that was Christmas on Redcoat Lane.

Let us first discuss the components of a "handsomely adorned" Christmas tree. Although a live tree is preferable to a plastic one, it is possible, with great effort, to elevate a mass-produced, store-bought "tree" to respectability. I remember only two or three real trees from my childhood, but the plastic impostors were redeemed by colored lights and a heavy layer of "icicles," those silvery strands designed to mimic the work of Jack Frost. (White lights are a blasphemous assault on tradition; therefore, they are unacceptable on any tree, living or dead.)

Mind you, extraordinary care must be taken to place icicles upon the tree in the correct fashion: that is, haphazardly. My two older sisters, younger brother and I became highly proficient in the art of icicle placement. First, you grab a clump of, say, 20 or 30 icicles, then stand back a few feet and hurl all of them, simultaneously, at the tree, allowing them to fall and cling where they may. The ideal trajectory and aerodynamic properties, we learned, were most easily obtained with an underhanded toss.

And what of the gifts? In the Davenport clan, gift-opening was (and remains) governed by a strict code of conduct. Most importantly, gifts are opened one at a time, in an order typically assigned by my sister Pamela, the family's enforcer (aka Pambo or Nazi Nanny), and only after the recipient has loudly announced the giver's name: "This is from Janet." The protocol is designed, apparently, to produce a simultaneous "Oooh" and "Ahhh" from the captive audience.

Dad occasionally seized upon Pambo's one-at-a-time rule to showcase his wicked sense of humor. One year when Mom had made known her desire for a trash compactor, all eyes were on her when she eagerly proclaimed, "This is from your father!" She tore into a long, slender box which, to her dismay, contained a baseball bat. Affixed was a note: "Here is your trash compactor!" The real one was in the garage. A couple of years later, when Mom wanted a mink coat, Dad bought a pleasure boat instead. We christened it, and stenciled on the stern, "Mama's Mink." Mom never complained.

My brother Scott and I inherited Dad's highly sophisticated sense of humor. One Christmas Eve, we asked Mom if she would prepare hot chocolate. Moments earlier, we had launched a covert operation and put a rubber band around the spray nozzle on the kitchen sink. Mom, unsuspecting, turned on the faucet and water flew everywhere! Pamela, the Enforcer, usually rolled her eyes and scorned our antics as "immature," but on this occasion, even she laughed a little. The rest of us convulsed on the floor. Dad was a co-conspirator. He not only knew about the prank but also captured it on video tape.

Over a century ago, George Gissing advised that we "hold by the open fire as you hold by whatever else is best in England. Because, in the course of nature, it will be some day a thing of the past (like most other things that are worth living for)."

The house on Redcoat is no longer, but on Christmas Eve, the Davenports will gather in Browns Summit. There, by the open fire, we will recall with melancholy pleasure the seasons of our youth.

Charles Davenport Jr. (daisha99@msn.com) is a freelance columnist who appears alternate Sundays in the News & Record.