Christmas is nothing if not predictable. I mean that in a good way. I, for one, am a slave to tradition. My family of origin always did the same thing. On Christmas Eve we went down in the valley to my paternal grandparents, Kate and Bill Irons. My dad was one of 12 children, most all of whom lived in the area. All the dozens of cousins drew names early in the month and hence purchased and received just one gift.

Gramma Kate prepared a big meal and we gathered in the “front room.” I do not believe we ever used that room any other time of the year except to “lay out” some dead relatives.

The next morning after unwrapping gifts at home, we went next door to Nonnie and Popop’s — mom’s folks. Again, another batch of cousins, aunts and uncles ate and carried on for the rest of the day.

Much to our chagrin, Popop would give each of us children old silver dollars. We were always disappointed as the young tend to be when the newest shiny toy is missing under the tree. I still have those silver dollars. Funny how life turns out.

I am grateful for yet another year to celebrate with family here on the Vineyard. The house is warm and cozy thanks to my son, Reuben, for the endless supply of firewood. Food is plentiful from this past year’s garden and the many local farms. Last Saturday was, sadly, the final winter farmers’ market. It is a completely enjoyable way to pass a Saturday. Familiar faces, music, a roaring fire and wonderful produce. I bought some turnips and rutabagas from Ghost Island, kale and collards from Blackwater and a big hunk of cheese from Grey Barn.

The highlight of the pre-Christmas week was Saturday evening’s wonderful performance at the Old Whaling Church. I think it has been 15 or 20 years since the Christmas section of Handel’s Messiah was performed on-Island. It was an annual event at the Stone Church for years. I always took my children. They often giggled during the solos and yet wanted to go every year. It seems to set the season off to a good start. Thanks to all involved.

Not much happening in garden world. My baby kale under Remay took a bit of a beating from last Friday’s bitter cold. It looks burned. Hopefully, it will come around.

I’ve been making sprouts once again. I like to have some growing activities year-round for my food. I usually do fenugreek and alfalfa. Both are family favorites. They are ready in a week after twice daily rinsings.

I control myself and refuse to look at seed catalogs until after the holiday. In fact, it irritates me that they begin arriving right after Thanksgiving.

What an awful week in the world — the truck plowing into a crowds in Berlin, attacks in Jordan, a suicide bombing in Yemen, the assassination of the Russian ambassador to Turkey and, of course, the ongoing horrible situation in Aleppo, Syria.

The Electoral College formally picked Donald Trump to be the 45th president. I admit I indulged in some hopeful and magical thinking before Monday’s vote in the face of impossible odds. I will forever take comfort in the fact that Hillary received almost three million more popular votes. Donald Trump was right about one thing — the system is rigged. At times like these we must return to Charles Dickens: God Bless Us Everyone!