It quickly became an obsession. Each winter Michael bought more North Pole buildings, triggering a town rezone. When he purchased the Glass Ornament Works and a gingerbread shop that blew smoke from its chimney, I built terraces designed to hide multi-plug power strips. The addition of the Elfin Forge and Assembly Shop plus Santa’s sprawling residence necessitated candy cane fences to keep overworked elves from plunging off their mountaintop home, but eventually the eight-foot countertop could hold no more. I declared the village complete and heaved a sigh of relief. No one else spent two days each year creating a miniature replica of the North Pole. Even for a Type-A planner like me, it was a bit much.

Michael restrained himself for a year. Then he broke down and purchased Mrs. Claus’s Greenhouse. “I couldn’t help it,” he said. “She’s a gardener like you.”

I held the two-foot-long building and felt a surge of guilty pleasure as I admired the tiny poinsettias through the leaded glass roof. Wouldn’t it look stunning against a backdrop of snow-flecked topiary trees?

I glared at Michael. “Absolutely no more.”

I surrendered to the inevitable when Michael bought Santa’s Visitor Center, forcing me to design a satellite village in the living room. Over the next few years he added a petting zoo, caroling elves, and a rotating children’s reindeer ride. When he purchased the Antler Inn, I created Elfland on the dining room hutch. It’s where frazzled elves go for a little R&R, a spa town complete with coffee shop, wedding chapel, and ski resort. I designed a frozen pond for the ice fishermen using a broken hand-mirror and wondered if our Christmas tradition was getting, well, just a tad bit out of hand.

When Michael brought home the Northern Lights Fire Station, I said three villages were enough. “But Honey,” he said. “It’ll look perfect at the top of your sledding hill.”

Before I could stop myself, I imagined the building with its steeply pitched roof and tiny bell tower nestled on the hill beneath a large snow-flocked redwood with room for Sparky the fire dog to run. Kringle’s Ornament Design Studio would look perfect as a quirky centerpiece on the kitchen table, real fake snow glittering on the burgundy velvet runner. When he showed me Santa’s Rooming House, I thought of the visiting elves in need of a place to stay. And how could I forget the elegant Glacier Park Pavilion? Wouldn’t that look spectacular with the expanded Visitor Center Complex?

I sighed. Another rezone was clearly in the works.

It was an odd holiday tradition, assembling the not-so little North Pole Villages, but one I grew to love. Each holiday season I opened the brightly colored boxes and unleashed boundless creativity, and I pitied the eight who didn’t inherit Grandpa Jack’s crafting gene. As I plugged in the power strips, I’d stand back to admire my work and wish he were still alive so he could see my five—no, six—North Pole Villages. He could have built me an elfin-sized ski lift with his Popsicle sticks.

Epilogue to follow next week

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton