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The weekend before Christmas, everyone always gathered in the neighborhood of abandoned houses at twilight.

It was good to have a place to be noisy and bright until late and know that no one was being disturbed. This year they were lucky and there was no snow. Last year Hollis had almost gotten frostbite from his wet boots. But it was too cold for that, and he was thankful.

They couldn’t afford those heat lamps Hollis had seen in the city. But there were trash can fires with clean slow-burning wood every half block or so, with a responsible person to keep watch over each and free marshmallows for those who wanted to roast them.

It was a good way for people to make some money before the holidays and get in some last-minute Christmas shopping. People sold things they knit or carved. There was a toy maker, a soap maker, a man who somehow managed to keep bees and had honey and wax. Some locals had garage sales and offered barters instead of money.

There was a family who came up from several towns over to sell tallow and lanolin, sheep cheese and jerky. An apple farm that brought juice, cider, butters, and apple pie doughnuts that sold so quick you had to come early just to get one.

The school had games, and some of the teachers did contests, trivia, cornhole, mock gambling. The band usually played a live song or two before the kids scampered off to have fun with the rest of the town. If the old people stepped in, there would be string music and dancing.

It was good. Worth waiting for. There was nothing there that anyone couldn’t afford.