Christmas has always been about a time for sharing stories. We sit around with family and friends and say, “Remember when …?”

I hope you and your family have a lovely holiday season filled with happy stories. This is the last issue for 2018, as we will not have a Farm World dated Dec. 26. Our offices will be closed from Dec. 20-26, and your next issue will be dated Jan. 2.

I thought I would end the year with my favorite Christmas story, so let me take you back to 1973. I was a horse-crazy 13-year-old and my brother Andy was a motorcycle-crazy 11-year-old. I had a pony, but what I really wanted was a horse.

However, my parents said it was too expensive and I would have to wait until I saved up enough money from detasseling corn to buy my own. I despaired that this would ever happen.

Every Christmas Eve our family would go to Cayuga, Ind., to the home of my maternal grandparents, Norman and Mary Barr. When we got home, I would spend the night upstairs in the room shared by my two brothers. My room was downstairs just outside of the living room, and Santa obviously could not come and surprise us if I was sleeping so close to the Christmas tree.

I was 10 when I got my own room downstairs, so my brothers and I had been sharing the upstairs bedroom on Christmas Eve for three years. Andy and I would spend hours discussing the possibilities of our Christmas presents. We knew our parents weren’t wealthy, but somehow our Christmases were always amazing.

Oddly enough, baby brother Sam would just fall asleep and never joined in our late-night discussions of Santa’s upcoming visit (and yes, to this day, I still believe in Santa). Mom would be constantly yelling up at us to be quiet and reminding us that Santa wouldn’t come if we were still awake. Andy and I learned to whisper.

On Christmas Eve 1973, Andy suddenly said, “I’ll tell you what you are getting for Christmas if you tell me what I’m getting.” Such a simple statement, but one that has ended up coloring our lives to this day.

Being older and wiser than Andy, I said, “You go first; tell me what I’m getting, and then I’ll tell you.”

“You are getting a horse,” Andy said.

I was so mad at him because he knew that’s what I wanted more than anything else in the world, and I had already had numerous discussions with my parents about it. I knew we could not afford a horse – and, seriously, how was Santa going to get a horse into the house and put it under the tree?

I informed Andy I knew he was lying, so I wasn’t going to tell him anything. He swore he was telling the truth. Since I knew for a fact I was not getting a horse, I decided to teach Andy a lesson – and so I told him he was getting a motorcycle.

His face lighted up. He was so excited. He believed me 100 percent.

So, Christmas morning dawned – well it hadn’t dawned yet, but Andy and I waited until 5:30 a.m. like always, then roused Sam and made him go down to our parents’ bedroom. Sam would have been 5 then, and obviously, who can resist a 5-year-old at Christmas, versus a 13-year-old?

Getting Sam up and prepped for Christmas wasn’t easy. Andy and I were bouncing off the walls and Sam was pokey. I practically carried him down and sat him outside of Mom and Dad’s bedroom and pushed him through the door, whispering, “Tell them Santa came.”

Finally, everyone was up and heading to the living room, which had been turned into a Christmas store of delights.

I can’t remember what other presents I got that morning, but I do remember I got a saddle and a bridle, and I was so embarrassed for my parents. I could tell the saddle and bridle were too big for my pony. I felt bad that I was going to have to tell them that these were not going to work.

Andy had a brand new bicycle leaning against the railing of the stairs and he was sitting on the steps crying. Mom was so perplexed; she was sure Andy was going to love this bicycle. No parent wants to see their child crying on Christmas morning. She had no idea what was wrong.

I’m sure those of you reading this have already figured out how this is going to end. But, seriously, I was the most clueless of 13-year-olds sitting there with the too-big saddle and bridle.

Dad said, “Let’s go out and give Rocky (the pony) his Christmas present.” We always went out and gave the farm animals carrots, apples and the like on Christmas morning.

We bundled up and made our way to the barn. Dad pulled the barn door open and there was the most beautiful horse I had ever seen. I burst into tears of happiness. I was screaming in delight.

My parents had worked out a deal with the person who had the horse that he would come over while we were in Cayuga and put it in the barn. Dad said the horse neighed when we got home and they were sure I would notice it, but I didn’t (again, oblivious 13-year-old).

So, I got my horse and Andy got a bicycle. It was my best Christmas ever and Andy’s worst Christmas ever, and to this day we argue about whose fault this was. I say Andy started it and that he should never have believed an 11-year-old would get a motorcycle. He says I was cruel to lie to him when he told the truth.

When Andy’s oldest daughter was a child, she said to me one day, “Aunt Connie, can you tell the story about the Christmas you lied to Daddy?”

Over the years I’ve given Andy numerous toy motorcycles at Christmas to try to make up for it. He still swears his life has been forever ruined. But, it is our Christmas story and we continue to remind each other of it every year.

I hope your stories will continue on through your families for generations to come.