My father would scold Laura when she’d sit on the overstuffed chair in our living room, poking the glass ornaments hanging from the Christmas tree, all adorned with tinsel and colored lights.

Invariably, an ornament would break, sending tiny shards of glass into the pile of gifts below.

We’d haul out the Electrolux vacuum cleaner, slide the gifts aside, and suck up the glass.

It was the 1960s in Skowhegan. My sister, three years older than I, was mischievous at all times of the year, but the Christmas season seemed to draw out her devilish nature even more so.

Our Aunt Barbara lived in Windsor and bought our gifts at Hussey’s General Store, which carries just about anything you could want, including wedding gowns, guns and cold beer which for years has been touted on the store’s marquee.

Aunt Barbara always wrapped our gifts beautifully. About a week before Christmas, she and Uncle Carl would drive to meet our parents halfway between Windsor and Skowhegan to exchange family gifts.

Barbara typically bought us something to wear. One particular Christmas when I was 5 and Laura, 8, we got lovely sweaters onto which my aunt affixed colorful holiday-themed brooches.

Unlike my sister, Jane, who was a year older than I and kept her curiosity in check, Laura had no patience for mysteries — in her eyes, they cried out to be solved. She read the entire series of Nancy Drew books and reveled in retelling the stories therein over and over to us at night before we fell sleep. She also sought mystery in real life, scouring cupboards, woods and fields in a quest to unearth treasure. Everything was dramatic, mysterious.

In that vein, Laura couldn’t wait for Christmas Day to find out what was in the packages under the tree, all done up in pretty paper and curly ribbons. She would poke and prod a gift, exclaiming aloud that it must be this or that. In the case of the gifts from Aunt Barbara, it took mere seconds for Laura’s sneaky fingers to discover the small, hard brooches on the sweaters and poke through the paper to reveal them.

She didn’t stop there. She peeled the tape off the wrapping paper concealing my gift and got a good look at its contents before wrapping it back up.

“You got a blue and white striped sweater with a Santa pin on it!” she announced.

Jane and I were mortified, not only because Laura had done the unthinkable while the adults weren’t looking, but also because Jane didn’t really want to know what she was getting for Christmas. I, on the other hand, did, but didn’t, all at the same time. We liked being surprised on Christmas morning.

When we got older, we were allowed to open one gift on Christmas Eve and then in the morning, we’d tear into the rest.

Sixty years later, I still love mystery and surprises, particularly at Christmas.

Often, friends and family will say they don’t need anything for Christmas or they prefer only consumable gifts such as food or candy, but I say bah humbug.

My response always is, “I love presents. Bring them on.”

Not only do I enjoy receiving gifts, I love choosing and giving them. The process of opening a present still produces a childlike excitement in my aging self that I hope I never lose. And, as far as I’m concerned, giving gifts is pure joy.

I suspect the giving part is one of the reasons people seem so happy around the holidays. Spirits are bright. Both young and old exude excitement in anticipation of being with loved ones and sharing festivities.

The holiday season is so fleeting; it arrives and exits in a flurry. But if we take the time to slow down and embrace it, we might just find ourselves revisiting the mystery and magic of childhood.

Amy Calder has been a Morning Sentinel reporter 35 years. Her columns appear here Saturdays. She is the author of the book, “Comfort is an Old Barn,” a collection of her curated columns, published in 2023 by Islandport Press. She may be reached at acalder@centralmaine.com. For previous Reporting Aside columns, go to centralmaine.com.