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I am not a natural hostess, but I absolutely adore having my family around. This means every gathering involves equal parts love, logistics, and low-grade panic. We just hosted a delayed Christmas at the cottage to accommodate the schedules of most of the crew. I mapped out meals, orchestrated game nights, agreed enthusiastically to my daughter-in-law’s plan for group pajama photos (I loved the idea. I’m just giving credit where credit is due), and even plotted shopping adventures.
But for the final non/post holiday day, I handed the reins to my daughter, Cinnamon. Yes, that is her real name. Yes, someday I will explain that decision in a separate post. For now, just know this: she is the polar opposite of her mother. I host by spreadsheet and prayer. She hosts by instinct and sparkle. So when I said, “You plan the last day,” she heard, “Create a full-scale family memories extravaganza.”
And plan she did.
We began at the cottage with the aforementioned pajama photo shoot—chaotic, cozy, and full of people yelling, “Wait, who blinked?” Then we caravanned into the city, splitting off for antiquing, mall wandering, and (for the teen-to-twenties crowd) a pilgrimage to Dave & Buster’s, which I am told is the earthly equivalent of paradise if you were born near or after 2000.
I did not go in. That much electronic noise is deeply offensive to a woman who lives like a genteel woodland creature on acreage where the loudest sounds are birdsong, the hum of a sawmill, and whatever tragic groan the tractor makes when it’s feeling philosophical.
After shopping and gaming, we gathered for dinner at a local brewery—excellent food, big laughter, and that warm, full feeling that comes from being surrounded by your people. I thought, “What a perfect ending to a packed day.”
But I had forgotten one crucial detail: I had put Cinnamon in charge.
There would be no early return home. Oh no. Instead, we all marched off to this incredible venue known for its obstacle courses and whitewater rafting during the summer, but is transformed into a winter wonderland in the colder months. Some of the gang enthusiastically did several turns around the very large outdoor skating rink. Some of us cheered them on from the sidelines, while sipping hot chocolate. There was a surprise bonus, too. The place was hosting a herd of Highland cows. And yes, my granddaughter and I have an utterly unhinged devotion to these fluffy, shaggy, glorious creatures. We routinely text each other cow photos like Victorian ladies exchanged calling cards. The only thing better for us would have been to visit the “hairy coos” in their natural habit … Scotland!
And still, the evening was not finished.
There was also a “Winter Trail,” which is the South’s way of saying, “We don’t have snow, but we do have 47 million twinkle lights.” We wandered beneath towering illuminated trees, pausing at giant swings, rope courses, and balance boards—all glowing with tiny white bulbs. It was beautiful. It was ridiculous. It was unexpectedly magical.
And somehow, impossibly, it managed to delight a dozen humans ranging from age 12 to 70. Which just proves that when love is abundant and the right daughter is in charge, even the most over-the-top day becomes the kind of memory that warms you long after the lights come down.