Day 9: The holiday season in Alaska is a time when the world seems largely asleep. Arctic cold has stilled the wildlife and frozen noisy streams. The sun rises late, then barely scrapes the southern horizon for a few hours before plunging back into darkness.

People sleep a lot. Depression is common because of the long, dark nights. The midnight sun of summer feels light-years away.

So when my wife and I decided to throw a little holiday party in the early 1980s, we called it "Solstice Breakfast." It would be held the Sunday closest to winter solstice, the day on or around Dec. 21 that marks the shortest day of the year, and more important, the start of longer days.

"C'mon over at sun-up," I told our friends. That's around 10 a.m. in Homer, the small fishing community at the end of the road in south-central Alaska where Mary and I had moved in the late 1970s.

Some drove their snow machines the half-mile in to our snowbound house. Others walked, guided by my hand-painted signs of encouragement: "Coffee ahead!"

Mary made huge pans of chile rellenos, and I cooked a pot of pintos using that traditional New Mexico recipe: water, salt, beans.

The first few people arrived early, when you could still have a conversation without shouting. By 11 a.m., forget it. Every time Mary turned down the stereo, I'd sneak back over and turn it up, attempting to wake the world with Asleep at the Wheel and the Beach Boys.

The table sagged under the weight of potluck breakfast - muffins and coffee cakes, casseroles and finger foods, moose, salmon and king crab.

And of course, coffee. Pot after pot of fresh-ground French roast made thick and strong, with half-and-half and various liqueurs to lighten and sweeten it. So much coffee I had to bring the Bunn O'Matic from work.

After a year or two, Solstice Breakfast became an eagerly anticipated tradition in our circle of friends living in the hills above town. Some brought ornaments for our "solstice tree," which we decorated with stars, planets and a yellow-and-red Zia.

Over the years, the parties got bigger and noisier. By late morning, the windows usually fogged up and the floor shook. The comfortable racket of the first few Solstice Breakfasts became a deafening din, especially as we and our friends had kids. Almost every year, someone brought their visiting parents, who looked on Solstice Breakfast as a cultural phenomenon.

And it was, really. It was a group of young, displaced, independent, hard-working people banding together to make community and tradition. We became each others' family at a time of year when all of us longed for connection. We made light and heat when the world was cold and dark.

Solstice Breakfast lasted almost 25 years before we moved from Homer to Anchorage. We didn't have the heart to start the party anew, so far from our old friends.

But it came as no surprise that longtime fans of the party in Homer resurrected the tradition. At dawn this past Sunday, people converged on the host's home to celebrate the shortest day of the year and the return of the light.

And we, 4,000 miles away, had a cup of French roast in their honor, under sunny blue skies.

Assistant City Editor Joel Gay, an Albuquerque native, returned to the Duke City this fall after nearly 30 winters in Alaska.