When I was a kid, the day after Thanksgiving meant it was time to get out the Christmas decorations and take down the Thanksgiving things. The hand-painted ceramic turkey, the cornucopia basket filled with spongy plastic produce, and the cut-out wooden napkin rings shaped like pilgrim hats and tom turkeys would all have to go back to the basement until next year.

The storage space in our awkwardly shaped octagon house was equally as awkward. Simply accessing this area was an all day adventure, our own version of Over the River and Through the Woods. The hollow plywood door where my brother and I hash-marked our heights acted as a portal into this scary space beneath our stairs. It took all of my 10 year old courage to move forward.

Knowing what treasures awaited, I opened the door. The smells of mildewed cardboard boxes and a decades worth of dust stung my nose. The damp, gritty cement floor chilled my feet and though I couldn't yet see it, I could feel the trickle of overflowed water from the sump-pump under my toes. Halfway into the narrow, squatty hall hung a bare bulb with a linked metal pull chain. The trick was to get the light before walking through an unilluminated spider web. With a blind swipe of my hand I grabbed the chain and tugged. Clink-clink-clink and there was light.

Now lit, I could see the room was filled with memories of holidays past. The giant stuffed-sock reindeer, a white wicker Easter basket filled with pastel plastic shred, Fourth of July flag pennants on gold painted dowel rods, red and pink Valentine's day doilies, and surely a ceramic something or other for every occasion.

Squeezed back between the water heater and furnace and into infinity under the stairs were boxes and boxes marked "Christmas." Without even opening them I knew the boxes contained the wire form wreaths for our bedroom doors, the crepe paper and ribbon Jacob's ladders, our personalized knit and stitched stockings to be hung on the barn beam mantle, the dozens of collectible Carlton and heartfelt Hallmark ornaments, and the musical ceramic snowman my mom painted when she was pregnant with me.

Perhaps the greatest find in this small space was the sticker-covered grey and black suitcase with a rigid black plastic handle and rusty metal snap-shut latches that pinched my fingers every time I closed it. This treasure chest of sorts held my favorite Christmas decorations, my books. Every year we'd spread them out under the tree in my bedroom like presents. I am sure that before they were my books they belonged to my brother who had since outgrown them or maybe they were inscribed to the stranger we purchased them from at a garage sale. It didn't matter to me, they were mine.

Once opened, the suitcase smelled of stale paper products, having long ago lost their crisp new book aroma. One by one I unpacked the books I had almost forgotten since last year. Like old acquaintances, I greeted them with a smile and knowing nod of remembrance. I lay them all out in a fan shape to admire the colorful covers of Charlie Brown's Christmas, The Night Before Christmas, Silent Night Songbook, The Christmas Mouse, My Mom Hates Me in January, The Twelve Days of Christmas, and The Sweet Smells of Christmas - my favorite. The cover of this particular book showed a brown bear cub in denim overalls smelling the decadently decorated Christmas tree - the first indication of the scratch and sniff spots to be found inside.

Page by page I fervently scratched the smell storing stickers to release their scents. The realistic aromas of fresh baked gingerbread men, gooey hot apple pie, mint swirl striped candy canes, and hot chocolate with bobbing melting marshmallows excited my senses, tickling my nose and making my mouth water. I'm not sure how or even if this book escaped the storage space smells. Perhaps the suitcase stashing had saved it. Or maybe the sweet scratch and sniffs protected the pages. Most likely the book smelled just like the basement but I loved it anyway.

After a few short weeks of delighting in the Christmas decorations, December 26th meant that it was time to put them away and get out the New Year's Eve items. Out would come the annoying noise makers, the glitter covered hats and sparkling tiaras, and the ceramic teapot painted with the lyrics, "For auld lang syne my dear, for auld lang syne."