A memory---as clear and as telling as the day it happened:   Snow is falling now, a silvery crystaline snow---glistening in the Syracuse night. The fine silvery shards sparkle as they catch the light from the glow of street lamps in Thorendon Park---downhill behind our house on Clarendon Street. Edward and I are watching, keeping an eye out. For we are expecting the arrival of Saint Nick---and have gathered our three young sons (Alexander, Barnaby & Benjamin) to the alcove windows overlooking the park below. Minutes pass. No sign of the expected Christmas Eve visitor---and then, we spy him! "Look!" we exclaim. "Someone is trudging up the hill!  Who could it be?" The dark figure, just a silhouette really, carries a large sack on his back, loses his footing, slides, stumbles as branches in the understory thicket catch his clothing. The snow is so deep! He persists, slow but sure, making his way through the woods and up the hill.  And then---he scales the wire fence, tumbling into our back yard.  The boys can see him clearly now. "It must be Santa Clause!" we say. "Where is his sleigh? And the Reindeer?Oh---he must have left them waiting down in the park of course. Our roof is so steep and our chimney so narrow---he has decided to walk up instead. Of course!"  Then there are shuffles and thumps on the front porch, and a knock at the door. And there, covered in matted snow, a red-faced frozen Santa stomps into the house! "HoHoHo!!!" We have cookies and hot chocolate waiting as this big burly frozen Santa reaches into his burpap bag to distribute the treats and gifts from his sack amidst shrieks and wonderous laughter of three very excited small boys. It takes a minute, maybe two, or three---and then they recognize this surprize guest.  It's none other than Uncle Peter! Our Uncle Peter who comes to visit, who loves to tussle and wrestle and swing kids round and round until everyone is too dizzy to stand up. Our dear Uncle Peter.  This memory, fresh as the sparkling snow on that long ago Christmas Eve---in the spirit that captures the man.    Godspeed Peter Gifford.   Our condolences,      Martha, Alexander, Barnaby, and Benjamin Ruhe