Before long, we were on our way home. I settled in and passed time by rewriting the words to "A Night Before Christmas." In my version, Santa fell through the roof and ended up in traction. I was trying to think of a word that rhymed with quadriplegic when the unthinkable happened — a second flat — in the space of four hours.

As Dad slowed the truck, the sickening reality sank in — we didn't have another spare. It was Christmas Eve, and we were stuck 30 miles from home with a flat tire.

After a brief family meeting, we decided to do the only thing we could — crawl home on the flat tire. I rolled face down, prepared to sleep away my misery, but Kit and Troy had decided to sing carols in rhythm with the flat tire — "Come they told me pa-wop-wop-wop-wop." The rest of the family joined in, seemingly unaware that the following day was about to be the worst Christmas ever.

For a time, I wondered how I had inherited the family from Whoville. But after a few miles, the singing and laughing began to affect me, too. Almost magically, the old truck had become our sleigh ride and the stars had turned into tree ornaments, hung low in the frosty sky.

The Christmas spirit was back, and it wasn't in presents or decorations. It was in family — my family.

It took another five delightful hours to sing our way home that night. After which, we stayed up well past midnight decorating the tree, wrapping presents and enjoying each other's company.

I didn't know it then, but that would be my family's last Christmas together. Lori left for college the next fall, and Mom passed away from cancer a few years later.

Today, I am so thankful for the memory of that wonderful/miserable Christmas Eve.

About the author

Les Whitmore was born in Moab but grew up in Nevada. He graduated from Brigham Young University in civil engineering. He has been married to Barbara for 24 years. They have seven children and a grandchild. Les enjoys woodworking, writing and restoring old vehicles.