As we all do, when we’ve grown older, I reminisce on my favorite memories. I think of what life was like as a child, when my mother cooked our warm, tasty meals or when my father tucked me into bed and told stories of how he traveled to America when he was a child. I reminisce of local gatherings or playing in the woods. Above all else, I cherish memories of Christmas Eve as a child.

What a magical night Christmas Eve is. All the neighbors or family members gathered in one place. Footprints in the snow connect all the front doors to one place, our house. Greenery decorates the staircase. The dessert table displays a platter of coriander cookies and pumpkin pudding sweetened with molasses and maple syrup. The sound of fiddles, flutes, and laughter drifts through the air. While the adults dance, the children with their full bellies gather at the window. As the oldest child, I sat with them and told them how my mother made the bayberry candles. The others listen while we wait for the sun to set and play our game. Who will find the first star in the sky this evening?

I begin my story.

“In early autumn, my sisters and I spend our mornings out by the lake, the one we were skating across just yesterday now that winter has frozen it over. In early autumn, the mornings are just becoming chilly. Our noses are red from the cold. Our cheeks tingle and burn, growing accustomed to a sensation we haven’t felt in a year. Sunlight glimmers through the thin parts of a clouded sky. Ducks swim across the water. Other birds flock together, tweeting and chattering, fluttering through the brush and perching on sticks. As the sun grows brighter, we watch the mist rise from the lake’s surface like steam. We, however, are not here to enjoy the beauty of an autumn morning. We are here to collect the wild bayberries.

Each of us, with a big basket in hand, begin clearing the branches of the bayberry bushes, picking off the blue-gray fruit. We walk farther from home, looking for every last bush and collecting as many berries as we can find. Once our baskets grow heavy, filled to the brim, and the branches of every bush are bare, free from fruit, we return home. Walking past the lake, tromping through the dirt, we’re out of breath with sore arms.

We finally make it home to Mother. She boils the berries in a large pot until all the wax seeps out. Then, I watch as she separates the wax from the water and melts the wax down again. It is still autumn, but the house is filled with the scent of Christmas. When the little taper candles are cool and stiff, my mother wraps them up and puts them away, saving them for Christmas Eve.”

As my story ends, there is a gasp of excitement. “There’s a star! I found the first star!”

Everyone cheers. My mother brings a bayberry candle to the child who found the first star. They get the honor of lighting it. Once the flame, tall and glowing, is dancing upon the top of the cloudy, green candle, my mother says, “This bayberry candle comes from a friend. So, on Christmas Eve, burn it down to the end. A bayberry candle burnt to the socket brings food to the larder and gold to the pocket.” My sisters and I gift the rest of the candles my mother made to each family celebrating with us. They would save these candles to light on the New Year.

We sing “Joy to the World,” dance, and eat more. Soon, the evening grows quiet. A second trail of footprints can be found in the snow, leading in the opposite direction as our neighbors return to their homes. When everyone in our house goes to bed, I stay awake, taking my place next to the candle. I watch the melting wax drip down while the flame flickers about. I play a game of my own. Can I stay awake until the candle goes out?

I was never able to do it. I would wake up every year to find the bayberry candle burnt down to the socket.

Author’s Note: Over the past few years, I have fallen in love with the bayberry candle tradition. The gifting and burning of the bayberry candle on Christmas Eve and New Year’s originated in colonial America.

The quote, “This bayberry candle comes from a friend. So, on Christmas Eve, burn it down to the end. A bayberry candle burnt to the socket brings food to the larder and gold to the pocket.” is one of the versions of the poem traditionally given with the candle.

This was written by our contributing writer, Karina Coghlan.