Are you familiar with “wall glow”? The soft golden hue that paints the walls of your living room at night, created by hundreds of LEDs shimmering in unison, carefully wrapped around evergreen branches?

If you’re not familiar, it’s because I made the term up. You know what it is, but you’ve never heard it as eloquently put as you have just now. Props to me for that one.

Anyway, wall glow has been one of those core-memory, nostalgia-inducing properties of Christmas for me. For years, I’d be transported back to a childhood state; 8 or 9 years old in late December, hopelessly in love with my babysitter, inhaling kraft mac n’ cheese by the gallon in front of a roaring fire, and anxiously awaiting a few tier-one presents from my parents at Grandma & Grandpa’s house. Lately, however, wall glow just hadn’t hit the same.

An original mid-19th century farmhouse on 200-something acres in a sleepy suburb of Rochester, NY that would make the Property Brothers squeal, Grandma & Grandpa’s house has been in the family for generations. They slowly sold off the land throughout the 1900s for eye-popping numbers like $400/acre to developers eager to build subdivisions riddled with split-level ranches and 3-bed colonials featuring faded Bills flags and middle class western NY hospitality (read functioning alcoholism). Wegmans bought a plot nearby. Side note - my dad dated Debbie Wegman in high school for a bit. If that worked out I’d be sipping mai-tais on Canandaigua, not writing about Christmas trees. Target and Starbucks followed and eventually the property was whittled down to its current state - a 5 acre parcel that my Grandpa toiled upon for decades, growing tomatoes, pumpkins, potatoes, and garlic mostly to qualify for an ag exemption. Grandpa hated taxes and big government.

The living room is anchored by a bay window to the left of a wood stove that looks out over the backyard which, for a time, included a beautiful red German-style barn. Grandpa loved that barn. He would tell stories of milking cows, Korean War atrocities, and my mother’s conception - all somehow linked back to that sagging heap of wood and wire.

The view from that aperture on Christmas Eve sometime around 2004 is one that’s burned into my memory - the last true feeling of Christmas “magic” I’ve ever experienced. That anticipatory excitement that fills your heart with a well-founded belief in tales of yore, your stomach with butterflies, and your mind with thoughts merry and bright. A blissful naiveté working in tandem with sensory overload. The lights, the songs, the traditions - all constantly delivering their own hit of serotonin to my brain.

Picture a scene at “blue hour”: light snow falling on top of already fresh powder from the previous day. All is quiet. Bulbous Christmas lights adorning the trees and the barn - the kind that were definitely dangerous, consumed power at an outrageous clip, and were subject to shattering at the slightest touch, rendering them useless after one season.

Thanks to my support for AI artists (me), I was able to draw something up for your visualization. That recollection looks something like this:

Pretty incredible, right? We’re absolutely unprepared as a society for the impact of AI but man is the tech cool for now.

To the right of that window sit the fireplace and tree - as seen here:

We had to swap out the old wood stove for a gas replica after Grandpa died because Grandma’s arthritis and general old age kept her from efficiently making trips to the wood pile. Check out those exposed beams, too. Unreal.

Hooked onto those beams are the stockings hung by the chimney with care, usually featuring a variety of chocolates, magazines, baseball cards, and sleeves of Pro V1s. They also are increasingly empty each year as they belonged to a number of dead family members including my Grandpa, Mom, Dad, and two dogs. Toasts to longevity and health at the holidays are done with a bit more candor as of late. (Relax, this humor is a coping mechanism).

That pillow in front of the fireplace you see has been the catalyst for scores of the most unconscious post-meal holiday naps ever seen. Perfectly situated on top of a thick shag rug that would make your great aunt swoon, laying your head down near the radiant warmth with a few fingers of bourbon next to you and the dulcet tones of Glenn Beck and Bill O’Reilly emanating through the space may as well have been my introduction to ambien.

Truly impossible to not doze off with a belly full of pot roast in this location.

That great room inspired me, nay, lit a fire in me that burns with the intensity of my Grandma’s distaste for Obama. Something about that space - so full of warmth, memories, and that “magic” of Christmas I discussed before set me on a course long before I ever knew I’d be beholden to the chase. Yearning for those simpler times - years-ago subconsciously and today very much conspicuous in my desire. I’ve attempted to recreate that aura to the best of my ability since that last glance out the bay window. It’s like Santa’s sleigh bell in The Polar Express - ringing for only so long before becoming inaudible to those who’ve grown out of the whimsy.

G’head. Cue it up. I’ll wait. You know the song. Bless you, Silvestri.

But this year, something happened.

Like the 130,000 workers dutifully whirring the turbines and diffusion towers of the Manhattan Project to life for years to produce a minute amount of enriched Uranium-235, enough to change the world forever, my rigorous approach finally paid off last week. Tears welled up and a distantly familiar wave fluttered to life in my stomach.

What I thought was a fruitless endeavor had culminated in a moment, however fleeting, of Christmas magic.

Let me take you back a bit.

The journey began in the late 90s in that home outside Rochester, NY, sure. But there were subtle clues throughout my childhood that acted as cosmic bumpers, steering my ship on a course destined for the North Pole.

There were Thomas Kinkade placemats and ornaments, depicting idyllic scenes of Christmas past.

There existed the routine of taking in classic Christmas music followed by nightly viewings of claymation movies that premiered in the 60s. There was a channel called “Sounds Of The Seasons” on Time Warner Cable that my Mom played so frequently in our house that the lower-third graphic was literally burned into the screen. She also claimed our dog enjoyed that specific station more than others so she’d leave the TV on all day when no one was home.

There was my Grandma’s Christmas Village - of which collecting pieces is a hobby so suburban and kitschy that I can’t help but respect it. Even picking it up myself.

That photo represents about a third of Grandma’s Christmas Village, which peaked somewhere in the mid-aughts. I showed an interest from day one, thus becoming the beneficiary of her age when she decided to emulate the economic challenges of late 20th century Western New York rust belt cities and curtail the village population, leaving me with a fledgling hamlet of my own. My mom was slated to receive these treasured pieces of porcelain, but she lacked the desire to establish her own festive outpost, preferring to spend most of her time at Christmas arguing with her brother and sister-in-law about the merits of public education vs homeschooling children. Spoiler alert, both sets of cousins turned out more than ok.

The bricks that had been laid in my childhood, like a well-constructed igloo, consistently nurtured that merry magic year after year in the weeks leading up to the big day. The balmy glow of Christmas cheer alive and well.

Slowly, however, weeks of wonder and anticipation became days. Days became hours, until the fleeting moments of holiday bliss were reserved for a truncated Christmas morning, eventually disappearing altogether. I remember the disappointment driving home eastbound through the beautiful I-90 corridor, passing cultural marvels like Weedsport, Canastota, Utica, and Herkimer while dodging lines of heavy snow reminiscent of nights in Dillon’s dorm room.

How could it be? Was I broken? A year later and maybe it would return. A mulligan.

No such luck. An absolutely fine holiday experience, yet no *magic*.

It was then I began the chase, fiending for that feeling once more. I thought it may be easy - a few more lights here, a few more ornaments there.

I had a long road ahead.

I thought I’d start with the tree. The wall glow that had first caught my attention so many years ago should do the trick.

Take a look at my first documented effort sometime around the year 2006. Complete with a massive entertainment center that we begrudgingly moved to a different corner of the room every 6 months, a TV as deep as it was wide, and those curtains for some reason.

I helped decorate the tree every year, sure, but this specific year it meant more. Every ornament precisely placed, every light serving a purpose. Even optimizing the less-visible lights for the aforementioned wall glow to see if maybe, just maybe, that feeling would return.

No dice.

I tried again next year.

Much better. The home equity loan bringing a renovation that included a fireplace and accent wall helped tremendously, as did the clearly disgruntled cocker spaniel. But still, something was missing.

Maybe the front yard was the key. I tried throwing it back, begging my dad to buy the old-fashioned multicolored lights to blanket a blue spruce tree.

What quality, what craftsmanship. Yet still, nothing.

I left for college, accepting that maybe Christmas magic was a cousin of childhood imagination. Even a sibling. When games of tag, imaginary friends, and unbound outdoor creativity died, so did the supernatural.

It wasn’t until a solo mission to Denver, living on my own for the first time in 2014 would I even try again.

A mistake. A true setback for the entire process, honestly. I was going the wrong direction. Look at that thing.

Upon my return to Boston, discouraged and reeling from a breakup, I tried once more. Thinking that pouring myself into my quest for a hit of Christmas cheer would distract me from the communication issues that doomed a college relationship.

With the optimism of a newly hatched sea turtle instinctively heading towards the ocean, oblivious to the grave danger around him, I made my way to the City Target near Fenway Park. The cashier was confused. My normal rations of Stouffer’s French Bread Pizzas and 32-packs of Riptide Rush Gatorade were nowhere to be found. In their place, $300 worth of lights, wrapping paper, and a brand new tree.

$300 that I did not have. A truly desperate attempt.

36 hours later, I passed out under that tree at the tail end of our Christmas party wearing a sweater featuring two reindeer fornicating doggy-style - err I guess reindeer-style? Not sure they have another option... But no magic to be found. It was a low point.

I had gone overboard in my pursuit of something that had become so seemingly intangible, so distant, I almost gave up entirely. The Clark Griswold approach was pushing me further from my goal, not closer.

Resigned to my fate, I decided to focus on enjoying the *new* things about the holidays. Christmas ales spiced just right, overconfidently discussing politics with aunts and uncles flush with their newfound Facebook clout, and texting high school crushes “ahh no way I’m home too! Maybe I’ll see you at Gaffney’s tonight haha”.

Out of the ashes, a glimmer of hope.

I became the “store run?” guy when visiting my grandparents for Christmas - willingly making trips to the El Dorado of suburban supermarkets, Wegmans. Every Christmas Eve, I embarked on the same pilgrimage, driving 4 minutes to nirvana.

Bagels? No problem. A meat and cheese section that would fit in anywhere in Italy? You bet. Officially licensed Bills gear that could double as a last second stocking stuffer? I’ve been guilty more than once.

I thrived on my own. The commotion of the masses wandering about, with an almost impressive lack of urgency unique to Western New York, soothed my racing mind. An escape from my big city, fast-paced norm. Bing Crosby blared over the speakers. I sampled every bite sized delicacy being served to the point where my family would text me wondering if I was ok. I felt something for the first time in a decade.

Was this my new Christmas magic? Not quite.

It was sometime after a few years in the “real world” (Barstool is most certainly not the real world) that I changed my approach. In an office full of people many years my senior, I decided to class up the gameplan a bit. Out with the multi-colored lights, in with the warm white. Trading Christmas ales for Christmas sangria, tacky sweaters for cable knit wool.

Firmly in my wannabe Stein Eriksen era upon moving to Austin, I upgraded the tree and for the first time broke the Mendoza line of Tannenbaums - 7 feet.

I won’t pretend to have the fake tree vs real tree debate solved, by the way. I truly fall into the “to each their own” camp. If you grew up with a legitimate evergreen, chances are you look down on me like my efforts are tailor-made for the corner of a Macy’s. You had a cool bonfire in January and found pine needles in your socks for the next 3 months. I’m happy for you.

My fake tree served its purpose in a 600 sq ft apartment. I was able to properly fill out its real estate with decorations, despite their lack of personal meaning, and it even provided an above average wall glow. I went in with measured expectations and was pleasantly surprised. It would serve me well. That service however, brought me no closer to that feeling I so desperately wanted.

I moved into my current residence in September of 2021. The first time I’d been truly “in love” with a place. The vaulted ceilings, space for a dining room, and the sunset/sunrise/skyline views were meticulously researched. I could see myself occupying the space for years to come. If I couldn’t find the magic here, it may be lost forever.

I ran back my previous tree, with the idea that more space around the apartment would provide me opportunities to bolster my Christmas vibe in the margins with lights and decor. I was right, but the centerpiece just felt… small.

Cozy? Sure. Pretty? I think so.

The one? No. When you know, you know - this wasn’t it.

Then, this year happened.

I was committed to being better, to correcting the flaws of past decisions. I reflected on what went wrong for so many years - what I had failed to see.

Was it the tree? Could it be?

I made my way to Home Depot to investigate. An unmistakable smell filled my nostrils. Orange-aproned associates buzzing about like elves in Santa’s workshop. On my right, power tool sets that I will undoubtedly one day purchase for my future father-in-law to win his approval. On my left, a forest of artificial conifers twinkling in a variety of colors.

I explored every branch. Too few lights, too much height, multi-color only. I narrowed my suitors carefully, making sure they truly did not check certain boxes before relegating them to the mental trash bin.

I landed on a 9ft spruce - complete with multiple light options and hyper-real branches. The spaces between the layers of pine were full and the girth manageable. Did I go over my budget? Yes. Was it worth it?

A cold front came through Austin in mid-November, bringing the temp from a ridiculous 88 to 53 in a matter of hours. My Saturday was free. It was time.

I spent the better part of the afternoon plumping and pruning, placing and propping. Lights were draped around every corner of the living room and my Christmas Village sprung to life. Breaking a sweat as the place came together, I pondered the efficacy of my approach. Was this another futile attempt at chasing a feeling that would never return?

I clicked the tree lights on and retreated to a better vantage point. A few changes required for some ornaments, but nothing major. I reviewed my work, taking in the scene as I waited for a pang of nostalgia to hit. Nothing right away. It was early, I thought. Maybe nightfall will change things.

It did.

Sunlight slipped away as I folded a load of laundry - the bright sky replaced by an overcast dark blue hue. It looked much colder than it was. The JBL pumped out some Christmas cocktail jazz. My parking lot lights flicked on and my phone alerted me - 10 mins til Ole Miss vs Georgia at 6pm.

I emerged from my room to find a scene that immediately felt warm, like wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. I felt my stomach lift and my shoulders shudder. My eyes welled up and a smirk creeped across my face. That familiar wall glow snapping me to a time 20 years ago.

Just for a moment, it happened. I was back at that bay window at Grandma’s. Fahoo Fores.

It left as quickly as it came, but knowing that the feeling still exists somewhere was enough for me. Mission accomplished.

I don’t have a great way to end this column. Grandma is selling the home after Christmas and it’ll be the last time I experience the holiday like I have for 29 years. I’m absolutely dreading it. It’s the only place I have left that is a thread to my childhood. The only place that truly feels like “home”. I guess that’s what growing up is, but man it doesn’t make it any easier.

There’s Grandma - in front of that very bay window. Maybe that magic will return for one more night in that great room. Maybe it won’t. Guess we’ll find out. Go Bills.

If there’s solace here, I think it’s knowing that if I play my cards right my kids will inherit that same Christmas magic gene I had. Maybe seeing them experience what I did growing up will light that fire all over again.

Christmas Magic: Lost & Found