Tradition

I am 28 years old, yet I can still be a little kid at times. One of those times is on Christmas Eve when I make my parents read The Polar Express with me. (They happily oblige, and we all relish the chance to do this each year.) We have a wooden train whistle to blow when the locomotive arrives in front of the house and some bells we ring as Santa presents the first gift of Christmas. (Or when my nieces and nephews read the story with us, they sporadically blow the whistle and ring the bells as they see fit.) The story is timeless, and the tradition of reading it is a throwback to simpler times. No matter my age, I am always my parents' child.