(A toss-up between cobwebs and candy canes)
I can’t pick a favorite holiday.
I’ve tried.
Every time I think it’s Halloween, Christmas pulls me back in with the scent of cinnamon and the warmth of garlanded nostalgia.
But when I lean too close to Christmas, Halloween whispers with its cobwebs and mischief and fog-wrapped charm.
So I’ve stopped choosing.
I hold them both.
Because the truth is, it’s not just the holidays themselves—it’s what they meant in my home growing up.
My mom didn’t decorate—she transformed.
Our home didn’t just reflect the seasons, it became them.
Summer looked like Americana and carnival reds.
Fall wore its earth tones proudly, like a country quilt stretched across the walls.
Winter was a full-blown wonderland, and spring practically bloomed from every soft surface.
Even our bedrooms played along.
Not as loudly, but enough to feel the shift.
Halloween brought cobwebs and jack-o-lanterns, ghosts and gargoyles perched like quiet watchers on shelves and porches.
Christmas turned the whole house into something that, as a kid, felt like Santa’s living room—
a Christmas village, a lit tree, garlands draped over doorways, reds and greens tucked into corners you didn’t think could hold color.
Even the dishes changed.
Each holiday had its own set—from the Debbie Mumm collection.
So did the towels. And the soap dispensers.
Yes, even the shower curtain.
Looking back, I think that was her way of loving us.
Every detail was intentional.
Every season told a story.
She knew every piece she owned.
Where it belonged. What it meant.
It wasn’t about having the “perfect” house.
It was about creating a world that changed with the wind, the calendar, the heart.
A world where a kid could walk through the front door and feel what time of year it was—not just in weather, but in mood. In color. In care.
So yeah, I can’t choose.
Halloween and Christmas live side by side in me.
One brings the wonder. One brings the warmth.
One twinkles. The other glows.
And every time I feel the air shift—when fall begins to lean toward winter,
or when October light starts slanting just right—
I remember that house.
That magic.
That love you could see, and touch, and sit beside on the couch.
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