We stepped out of the cold into the foyer of my grandparent's raised-ranch on 104 Washburn Drive.  Kicking the snow off our boots we lined them up while hanging our coats in the front closet with the sliding natural wood doors.  There was a little hole in each of the doors where you could grab onto to start it moving, and I swear on more than one occasion if I looked closely I could see a penny in there.  On the side table my grandmother's small Church figurine sat proudly, lit up from the single bulb inside.  Every year it was the same, and we wouldn't have had it any other way.  We were first greeted by smell of tobacco lined walls, and the sound of Nat King Cole's Christmas album scratching away on the record player upstairs.  "Hey come on up!" my grandfather bellowed from his easy chair in the living room.  Even though it was a mere 15 minute drive from our house to his, his face always lit up when he saw us as if he hadn't seen us for years. My father