So A Charlie Brown Christmas is 50 years old. It’s just a few months older than I am. Last night there was a lovely t.v. special about its history, followed by the show itself, so naturally I watched, being the Christmas fan that I am.

Now normally this particular show doesn’t make me cry. Oh sure, it tugs at the old heartstrings, but crying? Nope, not for this one. Until last night.

For some reason, when they were talking about some of the music and showing a scene of Charlie Brown and Linus walking down the street at night, it hit me. I was transported back to the winter of my childhood, and my own snowy street at night. My companion, however, was my father.

Most of my winter memories are of freezing cold, gloom, and inconvenience. I’m not a fan of winter weather, even a little. But last night, something shifted. As I watched those animated snowflakes fall, I remembered what it was like to go for a walk with my father in the winter, moonlight reflecting off the snow. I remembered the stillness, and the chill on my face. I remember him holding my mittened hand in his gloved one. I remembered the feeling that we were the only two people on Earth, and how much I liked that. I remembered the warm glow from the windows of our neighbors houses, and the fun of running ahead a few feet and sliding. I remembered snow angels.

I remembered that my childhood was full of simple, yet magical moments, and that I was loved. A few minutes of A Charlie Brown Christmas dislodged those memories from whatever deep freeze was holding them, and for that I’m grateful.