Crossly, as they prepared to leave, the young couple confronted the old folks. "Why do you not at least dispose of "The Old One". She is no longer of use to you. It's been years since you've had foals from her. You should cut corners and save where you can. Why do you keep her anyway?"

The old man looked down as his worn boot scuffed at the barn floor and his arm stole defensively about the Old One's neck as he drew her to him and rubbed her gently behind the ears.

He replied softly, "We keep her because of love. Only because of love."

Baffled and irritated, the young folks wished the old man and his wife a Merry Christmas and headed back toward the city as darkness stole through the valley. So it was, that because of the leave-taking, no one noticed the insulation smouldering on the frayed wires in the old barn. None saw the first spark fall. None but the "Old One".

In a matter of minutes, the whole barn was ablaze and the hungry flames were licking at the loft full of hay. With a cry of horror and despair, the old man shouted to his wife to call for help as he raced to the barn to save their beloved horses. But the flames were roaring now, and the blazing heat drove him back. He sank sobbing to the ground, helpless before the fire's fury. By the time the fire department arrived, only smoking, glowing ruins were left, and the old man and his wife. They thanked those who had come to their aid, and the old man turned to his wife, resting her white head upon his shoulders as he clumsily dried her tears with a frayed red bandana.

Brokenly he whispered, "We have lost much, but God has spared our home on this eve of Christmas. Let us, therefore, climb the hill to the old pine where we have sought comfort in times of despair. We will look down upon our home and give thanks to God that it has been spared."

And so, he took her by the hand and helped her up the snowy hill as he brushed aside his own tears with the back of his hand. As they stepped over the little knoll at the crest of the hill, they looked up and gasped in amazement at the incredible beauty before them. Seemingly, every glorious, brilliant star in the heavens was caught up in the glittering, snow-frosted branches of their beloved pine, and it was aglow with heavenly candles. And poised on its top most bough, a crystal crescent moon glistened like spun glass. Never had a mere mortal created a Christmas tree such as this.

Suddenly, the old man gave a cry of wonder and incredible joy as he pulled his wife forward. There, beneath the tree, was their Christmas gift. Bedded down about the "Old One" close to the trunk of the tree, was the entire herd, safe. At the first hint of smoke, she had pushed the door ajar with her muzzle and had led the horses through it. Slowly and with great dignity, never looking back, she had led them up the hill, stepping daintily through the snow. The foals were frightened and dashed about. The skittish yearlings looked back at the crackling, hungry flames, and tucked their tails under them as they licked their lips and hopped like rabbits. The mares pressed uneasily against the "Old One" as she moved calmly up the hill and to safety beneath the pine.

And now, she lay among them and gazed at the faces of those she loved. Her body was brittle with years, but the golden eyes were filled with devotion as she offered her gift - Because of love. Only Because of love.

I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parent's house on Christmas Eve. I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my mother and by date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees.

So, I was wrong.

Sue me.

I had only known Karen for three weeks when I extended the invitation. "I know these family things can be a little weird," I told her, "but my folks are great, and we always have a lot of fun on Christmas Eve."

"Sounds fine to me, " Karen said.

I had only known by mother for 31 years when I told her I'd be bringing Karen with me. "She's a very nice girl and she's really looking forward to meeting all of you"

"Sounds fine to me, " my mother said.

And that was that. Two telephone calls. Two sounds-fine-to-me's. What more could I want ?

I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian households, Christmas Eve is the social event of the entire year - an Italian woman's raison d'etre. She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the entire evening. Christmas Eve is what Italian women live for. I should also point out, I suppose, that when it comes to the kind of women that make Italian men go nuts, Karen is it. She doesn't clean. She doesn't cook. She doesn't bake. And she has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being.

I brought her anyway.

7:00 PM we arrive . . .

Karen and I walk in and putter around for half an hour waiting for the other guests to show up. During that half hour, my mother grills Karen like a cheeseburger and cannily determines that Karen does not clean, cook, or bake. My father equally observant. He pulls me into the living room and notes, "She has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being."

7:30 PM Others arrive - Uncle Ziti walks in with my Aunt Mafalde, assorted kids, assorted gifts. We sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically composed platter of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, salami, prosciutto, provolone and anchovies.

When I offer to make Karen's plate she says "Thank you. But none of those things, okay?" She points to the anchovies.

"You don't like anchovies?" I asked. "I don't like fish," Karen announces to one and all as 67 other varieties of foods-that-swim are baking, broiling, and simmering in the next room. My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are getting uncomfortable.

Aunt Mafalde asks Karen what her family eats on Christmas Eve. Karen says "Knockwurst."

None of this is turning out the way I'd hoped.

8:00 PM Second course - The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the table. Karen declines on the crab sauce and says she'll make her own with butter and ketchup. My mother asks me to join her in the kitchen. I take my "Merry Christmas" napkin from my lap, and place it on the "Merry Christmas" tablecloth and walk into the kitchen.

"I don't want to start any trouble", my mother says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in her hands. "But if she pours this on my pasta, I'm gong to throw acid in her face."

"Come on," I tell her. "It's Christmas. Let her eat what she wants."

My mother considers the situation, then nods. As I turn to walk back into the dining room, she grabs my shoulder.

"Tell me the truth," she says, "are you serious with this tramp?"

"She's not a tramp," I reply. "And I've only known her for three weeks."

"Well, it's your life", she tells me, "but if you marry her, she'll poison you ".

"Why don't you give them a little hand?" I politely suggest. Karen makes a face and walks into the kitchen carrying three forks.

"Dear, you don't have to do that", my mother tells her, smiling painfully.

"Oh, okay," Karen says, putting the forks on the sink. As she re-enters the dining room, a wine glass flies over her head and smashes against the wall. From the kitchen, my mother says "Whoops."

I vaguely remember that line from Torch Song Trilogy. "Whoops?" No. "Whoops is when you fall down an elevator shaft."

More fish comes out. After some groaning, Karen tries a piece of scungilli which she describes as "slimy, like worms." My mother winces, bites her hand and pounds her chest like one of those old women you always see in the sixth row of a funeral home. Aunt Mafalde does the same. Karen, believing this is something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand and pounds her chest. My Uncle Ziti doesn't know what to make of it. My father's dentures fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.

10:00 PM Coffee, dessert ....

Espresso all around. A little anisette. A curl of lemon peel. When Karen asks for milk, my mother finally slaps her in the face with a cannoli. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Karen, believing that this is something all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, picks up a cannoli and slaps my mother with it.

"This is fun," Karen says.

Fun ? No. Fun is when you fall down an elevator shaft. But amazingly, everyone is laughing and smiling and filled with good cheer - even my mother, who grabs me by the shoulder and says, "Get the witch out of my house".

Sounds fine to me.

Submitted by Pat, Smith Mountain Lake, Va.

This morning I heard a story on the radio of a woman who was out Christmas shopping with her two children. After many hours of looking at row after row of toys and everything else imaginable. And after hours of hearing both her children asking for everything they saw on those many shelves, she finally made it to the elevator with her two kids.

She was feeling what so many of us feel during the holiday season time of the year. Overwhelming pressure to go to every party, every housewarming, taste all the holiday food and treats, getting that perfect gift for every single person on our shopping list, making sure we don't forget anyone on our card list, and the pressure of making sure we respond to everyone who sent us a card.

Finally the elevator doors opened and there was already a crowd in the car. She pushed her way into the car and dragged her two kids in with her and all the bags of stuff. When the doors closed she couldn't take it anymore and stated, "Whoever started this whole Christmas thing should be found, strung up and shot.

"From the back of the car everyone heard a quiet calm voice respond, "Don't worry we already crucified him."

For the rest of the trip down the elevator it was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

Don't forget this year to keep the One who started this whole Christmas thing in your every thought, deed, purchase, and word. If we all did it, just think of how different this whole world would be.