When I was a wee babe of 9 months, our family of five moved from Salt Lake City to Delta Junction—a tiny town at the end of the Alaskan Highway, approximately 90 miles SE of Fairbanks. At the time, Delta Junction had a population of approximately 500 and has never recorded more than 1000. Through the years, my parents remained good friends with the next door couple who rented to us. At one point, the four of them idly talked of moving both families to Australia. And, much later, they vacationed together there.

Of course I don’t remember the move to Alaska, but I do hold a few memories of my life before our family relocated to Las Vegas three years later. Certain stories come to mind, some from family lore, such as the moose that stuck his head through our trailer’s kitchen window, my little sister being born during a blizzard, my near-drowning in the Delta River, and Anchorage suffering through a 9.2 magnitude earthquake. But those stories are for another time. This one is about my mother’s knack for making the best of difficult situations, especially where her children were concerned.

Why, you might wonder, would anyone move to Alaska in November? As it so happens, my parents were looking for a fresh start after my father was fired from his position at a grocery store. When it was discovered two employees were embezzling funds, Dad was held accountable as he was the hiring manager, and he took too long in detecting the theft. Word got around to other stores in the area, and my father lost confidence in securing a new job. So we migrated north where he found work as manager of the PX at Fort Greely. And soon afterward, as was typical everywhere we moved, my mother was hired as a nurse at a local clinic.

Although my parents brought appropriate clothing and rented adequate lodging, our household items were left behind in Salt Lake to be shipped later by my grandparents. Thus, when Christmas approached the following month, we had no decorations. Having little to do in the near-constant darkness of Alaska’s winter, Mom hatched a plan that became a years-long family tradition. She whipped up batches of sugar cookies and cut them into shapes of stars, bells, wreaths, and trees. Before popping them into the oven, she pushed a thimble into the dough to create a small hole at the top of each. Once the cookies cooled, she iced them with red-, green-, yellow- and blue-dyed powdered-sugar frosting. And after my father dragged a tree inside, my mom hung cookies on every limb using yarn from her knitting case.

Over the years, other edibles were added, such as candy canes and popcorn balls, but the cookies were the only constant. One full day in the second week of every December, our house was a flurry of flour. My mom enlisted the whole family and stationed us along her makeshift assembly line. No one was exempt, and truthfully, we’d be disappointed if we were. Here’s a picture of me with Roman Meal bread bags wrapped around a cast on my right arm—a break that happened from a fall after attempting to skip two rungs on the monkey bars in first grade.

While living in Texas, we invited the neighbor kids for a holiday party, everyone bringing a gift to share. After singing carols up and down the streets, we circled back to the house and devoured the cookies off the tree, avoiding the ones at the bottom the dog had clearly licked. All the while, my sweet mom ladled hot cocoa into mugs filled with marshmallows. The sugar highs must’ve lasted for hours.

I can’t find a picture of the full tree, and I’m not sure one exists without kids obstructing its view. But this photo shows a table laden with cookies, where sprinkles were now a thing and new shapes of horses, chickens, and Santas were added. I distinctly remember a rabbit and Scotty dog, but I don’t see any here.

Sadly, my mom no longer remembers the cookie tree or Alaska, because a misdiagnosis robbed her of memories. But family, friends, and neighbors remember. And our lives are richer for having been surrounded by her warmth, kindness, and whimsy.

And for the record, years later I tried duplicating those cookies. Although delicious, they were missing the dash of magic only my mother could bring.