I've been thinking about Christmases past--way past.
The first one I can really remember was at my great-grandmother's house. Because my sister did our genealogy I know that she was a quite a woman. She started out in life as Desdemona Diana and along with her sisters who had equally lovely names, was adopted. Her adopted family changed her name to Minnie. As Minnie she married a man who was killed while driving a horse driven wagon. When he died she was left to figure out a way to make a living on her own and she opened her home up to boarders, mostly railroad men.
It was in this house that I remember that first Christmas. I wasn't five yet, because I didn't have a sister, who came along when I started kindergarten. This makes me think I was probably 4.
All I really remember about Great-Grandma Smith's house, was the living room was in the middle, no windows, just lots of doors that went to other rooms. The Christmas tree was in the living room, but I don't remember what else, though I think a long dining room table. That Christmas Eve I know I slept on a pallet in the kitchen. Sometime in the night I heard the reindeer on the roof and bells ringing. So I knew Santa Claus had managed to find me even though I was a long way from home.
And that's the very first Christmas I remember.