I just finished baking four batches of Toll House Cookies and started running the water to clean up the dishes. The snow fell outside the kitchen window in the perfect dusk of that Christmas Eve. I’d spent the afternoon preparing for Christmas day. I baked and wrapped gifts. I drank coffee and wrapped gifts. I read the paper and wrapped gifts. But my spirit was easy and unhurried.I had the radio tuned to KUAC that afternoon and all the regular shows were featuring Holiday music. It was the voice I noticed first – a crisp, clear British voice – recorded years ago. I could hear the crackle and hiss of the old recording. Then the story  … something about a young boy and special Christmas Eve. “I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.” The British voice was rhythmic and regal. One that surrounded me. I listened to the voice as water ran over my hands. I could see that little boy in Wales – many, many years ago – as Dylan Thomas read his famous piece, “A Child’s Christmas In Wales.” His voice filled my cabin. Completely. I don’t know how long the story lasted but it seemed like time had stopped. And just as quietly as it started, he finished the story. I look back at that afternoon as one of my favorite Christmas memories; the smell of cookies, the falling snow, the story of family, and the sound of his voice. As if he was saying to me, “Happy Christmas” from a long time ago.