It began as a game played as children, usually Christmastime.

Traveling through upstate New York waiting and looking. Those with better vision and more height could see the A-frame roof of the house on Elm Court from any lane of the busy Northway.

The shorter, blinder ones waited with wide-eyed anticipation. Turning into the neighborhood and onto a cul-de-sac, indeed Christmas had arrived. She always stood in the doorway, defying the frigid New York air. Visits were not common back then, but those to grandma’s house were precious and priceless.

Maybe it was the smell, that sweet, subtle smell of the wood-burning stove in the basement that I longed for then — and continue to long for. Maybe it was the feeling of home and love, for those in this house had nothing but love.

I would give everything I own, minus the dog, to be there on Wednesday. Mary Louise Murphy — a Murphy who married a Murphy — will turn 93.

She was born into the end of the first great war, lived through the Great Depression and saw the love of her life off to the second war to end all wars. All the while, she has been the strongest one in the room. When her husband left for unknown spots in the Pacific, she already had one son and another child on the way.

Two more children followed after the war, and she and her husband, John, arrived in Albany, N.Y. The house on Elm Court the quintessential example of a post-war housing boom. The side yard inviting. But no exterior could match the warmth inside. If she has ever said a negative word, it has not fallen on these ears.

Her devout faith in God and family has carried her through every trying moment with strength. If there is a more perfect human being, these eyes have not come upon it.

For her 93rd birthday, her children are planning a small get-together — she would say don’t make a fuss — but if anyone were worth a fuss, well…

To celebrate with her on Wednesday is a geographic impossibility. Trips “up there” are infrequent at best. When Christmas rolls around in about 14 weeks one item will be cemented on the calendar — a trip to the house on Elm Court. I’d ride a donkey if need-be for one more breath of that wonderful smell, subtle and sweet, of the wood-burning stove. I’d hitchhike backward for a gentle hug and kiss on the cheek.

For when I exit the Thruway onto the Northway in December — Lord willing and the Creek don’t rise, as I have learned in my years as a transplanted Yankee — I will be a child again straining my neck to catch the glimpse of the roof from the highway. I’m taller, but still optically challenged, so the house likely will remain out of view, but only for a few moments.

We’ll head down to Elm Court. The side yard where cousins played heated tackle football games will appear. I’ll be giddy as a school child, forgetting my true age. One more soft right turn into the driveway and — Lord willing — it will be Christmas 1980 all over again.

The door will open.

She’ll be there smiling.

The smell will be there.

Perfect as always.