Chester Kennedy loved spending Christmas Day with his family though he seldom got through it unscathed anymore.

He was in his sixties, and though he loved to romp with his five grandchildren, he wasn’t as spry as he once was.

Two Christmases ago, he’d bought each of them and himself a circular plastic disk which they took to the snowy hill in the park.  They had a ball on theirs, cruising down the slope endlessly.  He had managed a single ride without mishap before tumbling off on the next and somersaulting all the way to the bottom.  He’d  bruised his ribs and could barely stumble home.

Last Christmas he’d come early to find his daughter trying to string some lights above her front door.

“Ah, let me do that, Gail.  You’ve got a dinner to prepare.”

She smiled, pleased to turn over the chore.  “I made sure the stepladder was steady, Dad, but be careful.”

He’d heeded the warning, took each step up cautiously, and braced himself against the wall with one hand when weaving the string around the screwed in hooks above the door.

He finished the task quickly, then hollered, “Someone please plug  in the lights.”

“What, Gramps?” yelped grandson Todd, opening the door and charging over the threshold.  A heavy-set twelve-year-old who loved football, he rammed the ladder with a shoulder.  Chester teetered, then came crashing down.  He dislocated his shoulder and spent the bulk of Christmas Day in a sling.

This Christmas everything was blanketed in snow.  Chester waited until midafternoon before departing his comfy dwelling for Gail’s.  He’d donned boots at the break of day, used the shovel always standing near his mailbox to clear snow off his porch,  steps, and sidewalk to the attached garage.  Then he sprinkled salt as he backtracked.

A neighbor exhibiting much Christmas spirit graciously snow-plowed Chester’s driveway.  Chester was smiling as he loaded his car with presents.  He drove slowly, cautiously, to his daughter’s house and parked in her shoveled driveway.

“Hope the kids, not Gail, did this,” Chester said as he piled the  gifts into his arms.

On he trudged to the walkway to the porch.  He grimaced when he saw those glowing lights he’d strung a year ago.

“There’s hope,” he muttered, stepping carefully.

The front door opened and a face he’d never seen before looked at him then bolted forth.

“Blackie, no!” shouted Dory, age six.

But the black Labrador didn’t listen.  It sprang toward Chester and catapulted into his loaded arms.  Dory’s grandpa’s feet went out from under him and he fell backwards into a pile of snow.

Presents flew everywhere.  The dog leaped upon Chester’s chest and licked his face.

Dory stood in the doorway bawling as her mother dashed toward Chester.

“Dad . . . Dad, are you okay?” Kneeling in the snow, she swept Blackie off him.

Chester grinned at her.  “I’m wet but okay.  Snow cushioned the fall.  And that beast loves me.”

Gail hugged him.  “Oh, Dad, we all do.”