‘Tis the season. Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, Solstice. Here in the depths of winter we find a bundle of major celebrations for many cultures and religions.

This is not a coincidence. Growing up, our house was host to a mindful mix of faith, heritage and ecumenical celebration. Latkes with homemade applesauce had their place along with the mistletoe and holly wreaths. That said, with two UCC ministers for parents, Christmas undeniably held center stage.

Of course, we did some things, let’s say, differently.

The tree did not arrive until Christmas Eve, and was decorated overnight by Santa. I was not allowed to even see it until after breakfast. A long, slow, “why yes, I will have a fourth cup of coffee, thank you” adult-centric breakfast.

Given the late arrival of the tree, other decorations naturally took on additional importance. Most important of all was The Village. The day that mom brought out the small cast-iron houses, the figure skaters and their mirror-surface pond, and most importantly, the tiny horse pulling a sleigh with real jingle bells, well that was the day you knew things were about to get good.

It is not surprising, then, that when my own children were little I knew we needed a village of our own. The trouble became finding one.

The family set, handed down to my mother, was now hard to find and impossible to afford. The ceramic ones were never right, and the plastic versions left me cold. Faced with this dilemma, and decidedly entwined in that strange new-parent vortex of angst about failing to create the “proper childhood” for my cherished offspring, I resorted to my own peculiar comfort zone.

We made our own.

One quick trip to the local craft store, a round of cocoa and cookies for inspiration, and we were set. The houses themselves were basic white rectangles in varying sizes, intended for gifting fudge, and a few steep-slope-top boxes meant to hold homemade chocolates. The boys drew the outlines for windows and doors, faithfully followed by Exacto-wielding grownups, the open spaces filled in with colored cellophane after their exteriors had been painted from a “mid-century modern” palette of aqua, marigold, turquoise, and pink. Glue and glitter made for snowy rooftops and hidden flaps allowed Christmas bulbs to light them up. They were only meant for that one year. In January, however, we found ourselves carefully packing them away to use again. And again. And again.

This year, our village is a decade old. The children are now teenagers, the eldest preparing for college. Some of the glitter snow has vanished, and here and there a seam has bowed. But the village still looks darned good. A few years ago, cocktail pinwheels were added to roofs by the boys as our village “converted to wind power,” and at some point someone added tiny little evergreens. Most importantly of all, however, The Village is still the first, and most important sign in our family that the holiday season has begun.

When the boxes emerge from the basement, everyone gathers ’round to clear the mantle, arrange the paper snow, and start stacking houses. Someone, without fail, makes the same comment (every year) about the house with the Gaudi-esque curves, Christmases past are recalled, teenagers smile, hugs ensue, and there is in that moment, apart from the presents and the gift-giving, a perfect encapsulation of what the season is actually all about.

I would not trade this village for anything.

May your winter, whatever your celebration, be filled with love, light and laughter.

Brunswick resident Heather D. Martin wants to know what’s on your mind; email her at heather@heatherdmartin.com.