Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, December 31, 1946

The last day of the year – a cold but bright and sunny day, with a film of fluffy snow on the bare ground. Where there are weeds, the snow is not apparent.

A fine Christmas season – all of us more or less well, and happy, a spirit of peace and contentment. M.A. came home the Sunday before (riding with two boys from Springville) bringing with her a friend who went on to Boston the next day).

The whole family out for Christmas (turkey dinner) – including the new grandson who slept most of the day in his bassinette in the middle room.

This year I seemed to reach some sort of milestone – gone was the acute nostalgia for my boyhood Christmases, and in its place a contemplation, as I lay in bed Christmas Eve, of the miracle of the birth of Christ, of God assuming human form for our salvation. (Something I never thought of as a boy).

Not that all yearnings for past Christmas joys were absent however. Every so often would come a pang of regret for the half-revealed memories of incidents that perhaps never existed.

Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, December 31, 1946