Presents have been on my mind. Of course they are. It is the end of the year, the turning to the deepest dark. It is the time of Advent and the time of Hanukkah.

When I was very young, all of the descendants of my mother’s mother gathered at her home to eat dinner and then to exchange gifts. I was the first of the grandchildren. At Thanksgiving, the names of the aunts and uncles were written on strips of paper, then tightly folded and placed in a bowl. One by one, the adults who were the aunts and uncles and their husbands and wives, drew the name of the adult to whom that person would give a gift.

But on Christmas Eve, the adults had to wait for their gifts until all of the children had torn away the multicolored paper, then showed their gifts to an excited audience.

Over the years, the children’s generation became two girls and six boys. Although none of my brothers or boy cousins were ever given coonskin hats, inspired by the Davy Crockett craze, their miniature Stetsons were woven of something white — paper? plastic? painted strands of wood? — along with pairs of six-shooters, in holsters, attached to belts.That was a look that would not be approved today.

I guess that the first Christmas gift I received was a Minnie Mouse doll who would be called a stuffie today. Later, I remember a baby doll who was not bottle-fed. I spent most of the year talking my parents into allowing me to have a Tiny Tears doll.

My mother’s sister always gave me books. She was the first to introduce me to Nancy Drew. But my favorite Christmas was the year I received five art sets. Each set was different. One was a book of complex drawings to be filled out according to coloring by numbers. Each kit used a single medium: paint, crayons or pencils. One had a tabletop easel. Its idea was to secure a drawing under a sheet of clear plastic. Then the picture was painted on the plastic, which, would later be rinsed to be made ready for a new color scheme.

By fifth grade, I no longer wanted anything but a microscope. The next year, I wanted a chemistry set. I was the only girl at my school to have such toys. Other girls who were not friends visited to look at leaves and scraps of paper with the aid of my microscope. But a few just dismissed me, saying, “Those are boys’ toys.”

My family of origin always presented the children with new “going to church clothes,” also known as “dress clothing.” I made my daughter dresses before Christmas and embroidered dragons on my sons’ sweatshirts. We had become Unitarians and attended the late services. Mothers either made lasagna or roast beef with vegetables that they slid into ovens before leaving for church. All came home to beautifully cooked food. Then the kids hung up their stockings, brushed their teeth and went to bed. We filled the stockings and went to bed ourselves.

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In the morning, I took the brioche from the fridge. It baked while the kids opened their socks. We ate the brioche and fruit. When we were full, we opened presents.

This year, however, things are different — for my son’s large brood, back in the U.S. after five years in South Korea, are largely strangers to me. Two are on their own. That leaves five at home. My daughter’s kids are close but not conveniently close.

For me, it was a difficult year in many ways. The heat of the early summer sickened me and I lost time and weight. My budget proved insufficient. Because I had not sewed for many years, my skills ebbed and the quilts I am making are taking far too much long.

Then, there is the political world shoving its way into every corner of the lives of people whose thoughts, ideas and hopes are very different. For me, my imagination continually presents the worst-case scenario. I find myself thinking of horror stories from novels and films.

But I have sent off a parcel to my son’s family and my daughter and I have planned a sumptuous feast for Christmas.

Best wishes to you all, for whatever holiday you celebrate.

Susan Wozniak has been a caseworker, a college professor and journalist. She is a mother and grandmother.