The wind came first—rattling shutters, worrying the bare branches of the great elm by the meetinghouse, and carrying with it the sharp, iron scent of snow. In the small coastal town of Portsmouth, winter had settled deeply into the bones of the year 1704. The Piscataqua River moved slow and black, rimmed with ice, and every footstep on the hard-packed earth rang like a hammer blow.
Inside a modest timber-framed house near the harbor, warmth pooled around a stone hearth. Mehitable Uran leaned over a pot of broth, her cheeks flushed from tending the fire. Dried onions and salt pork simmered together—nothing fancy, but reliable against a cold that showed no mercy. Above her, bundles of herbs hung from rafters darkened by years of wood smoke: sage, thyme, and the last precious sprigs of dried rosemary saved for winter.
Outside, Christmas approached.
In truth, one might not have guessed it at first glance. There were no strings of lights, no evergreen trees glittering in parlors, no shop windows dressed for holiday crowds. In still-Puritan touched New Hampshire, Christmas was a complicated affair. Many still viewed it with suspicion—too English, too Catholic, too indulgent. Public celebration was muted, sometimes frowned upon altogether. December 25th was often treated as any other workday.
And yet, quietly, in kitchens and candlelit rooms, Christmas lived.
Mehitable’s husband, Richard, pushed in through the low door, stamping snow from his boots. His wool coat was dusted white, his face raw from the wind.
“The harbor’s near iced in,” he said. “One more storm like this and the fishing boats will be done for weeks.”
Mehitable only nodded. They had long learned how fragile winter fortunes could be. The sea fed Portsmouth, but winter could just as easily starve it.
From the corner of the room, their youngest son, John, watched wide-eyed as Mehitable reached into a small wooden chest and drew out a treasure: a single apple, wrinkled but still red, saved since autumn in cool storage. It was not much by modern standards, but in December it was a marvel.
“For tomorrow,” she said gently, seeing his eager gaze. “Christmas apple.”
John grinned as if she’d promised him gold.
That evening, as darkness fell early and hard, the Urans gathered what small comforts they could. A tallow candle burned on the table. Cornbread baked in a heavy pan near the hearth. Mehitable mixed a bit of molasses into dough for small buns—sweet enough to feel like a celebration. From a neighbor they had traded for a small crock of cider, sharp and warming.
Elsewhere in town, similar scenes quietly unfolded. In one house, a Huguenot family whispered hymns in French. In another, a sea captain fresh from England shared stories of grand Christmas feasts across the ocean, his words half envy, half longing. At the edge of town, an Abenaki family, trading partners and neighbors, marked the turning of the season in their own way, honoring the long night and the promise of the returning sun.
No bells rang for Christmas morning. No public proclamation set the day apart. Yet the cold itself made the day feel different—sharper, heavier, as if the world paused to listen.
At dawn, frost feathered every windowpane. The Urans rose early. Richard split fresh kindling, while Mehitable set the pot to boil. The children huddled close to the fire, rubbing sleep from their eyes.
There were no lavish gifts. John received his apple, sliced thin so each piece would last. His sister, Mary, was given a small doll Mehitable had stitched from scrap cloth weeks earlier by candlelight. For Richard, Mehitable had knitted a new pair of thick woolen mittens, uneven at the thumbs but strong. For Mehitable, Richard had carved a spoon from driftwood, smooth and pale—small, but carved with care.
They bowed their heads in quiet prayer—not for abundance, but for survival: thanks for the roof that held, the fire that burned, the food that endured another winter day.
Later, Richard wrapped himself against the cold and stepped outside. Work did not vanish for Christmas, no matter how one felt about the holiday. A neighbor’s cow had gone missing in the night, and several men were already following tracks along the frozen edge of a salt marsh. Even on Christmas, animals wandered, wells crusted over with ice, ships ran aground. The world did not pause simply because the calendar turned.
By midday, snow began to fall—slow, wide flakes that softened the sharp edges of the town. Children dared brief games in the yard, laughter puffing into the air like smoke. Mehitable ladled out broth and cornbread, adding the last of the cider to warm their bellies. It was not a feast, but it was enough.
As evening returned, the Urans gathered again by the hearth. Mehitable told the old story of Christ’s birth, passed down in murmurs rather than sermons. Outside, the wind sang through the eaves. Inside, firelight danced across rough-hewn beams.
Tomorrow would be cold. January would be colder. It was rare, but perhaps this year the river would freeze solid enough to walk across before spring returned. There would be sickness, lean weeks, and worries enough to last the season.
But for this one night, the hearth held fast against the dark.
And that, in colonial New Hampshire, was Christmas.
This story is a work of historical fiction.
While the characters and events are imagined,
they are inspired by real places, real history, and the lived experiences
of my own ancestors in colonial New Hampshire.
A beautiful story