When we bought our home in Dover, Mike begged me to decorate with as little clutter as possible. Keep the walls bare. He needed a totally different look than he’d had in the past. But when it came to the holidays, he urged me to pull out every single bauble and ball, every bit of crystal and tinsel. Mike loved my vintage holiday decorations – and the fact that every one of them had a story.
Michael had never celebrated Christmas like we did, with annual traditions and rituals. He was a surprisingly eager participant – even to wearing flashing lightbulb necklaces and Santa Claus head boppers! We added some new traditions of our own, along with a large number of happy memories and funny stories.
When Mike died, Catlin looked at me and said – “I guess we go back to sad Christmases again.” And I stared at her in shock, and vowed that wouldn’t happen. So this year, I’ve opened boxes. And boxes and boxes and boxes. With each box has come a kind of healing, a reminder that I’m never alone. Our saints and guardian angels are closer than we realize, especially at Christmas.
Christmas memories are unique to each family. Our Christmas ornaments are among the top items that we say we would most hate to lose. These little pieces of glass and plastic cement us to those no longer with us…to our children long grown…and to places and times that now exist only in memory. Christmas ornaments capture our past in ways that few other objects can do.
In our family, they date back to the late 1800s. They survived from WWII, and many come from the 1930s – 50s. I started avidly collecting in 1979, and have amassed easily over a thousand ornaments on my own.
As I’ve opened boxes, I’ve found the Lord and Taylor box where I stashed the Victorian feather tree. My grandmother fished it out of a neighbor’s trash can back when the calendar had just changed to the 1900s. Mama kept that little sucker going for decades on our mantle. It now lives with Grandmama’s lead tinsel, countless figural lights and antique ornaments in this treasure box of Christmases past.
Daddy had his first heart attack when I was five. Two things I remember – one, for several days, until Daddy’s paycheck came in, a Sara Lee chocolate cake that someone brought us was the only food in our house. Mama and I took very small bites. And two, we made a little Christmas tree for Daddy’s hospital room that we decorated with salt dough ornaments. Mama dyed the dough with food coloring. We cut out green trees and pink bells, sinking sequins into them. They grace her cut glass dish in my china cabinet today.
Catlin’s handmade gifts from elementary school sit on the secretary beside the little match holder I made at Mrs. Mitchell’s kindergarten. A couple of Mama’s childhood toys with advertising slogans on them rest easy on the bookshelf.
Mama’s hands were so crippled from RA that she could barely open them. Yet she made the most fragile ornaments out of cut-up paper doilies and tiny magazine pictures. Catlin made me another set for what would be Al’s last Christmas. They had a Beatrix Potter theme, decorated with antique buttons – from “the Janes”. It was one of the most meaningful gifts I’ve ever received. Mama also made tiny wrapping paper hobby horses and tin foil puffs. And Daddy gave me the moon and the stars when I was born – small gold-foil-covered cutouts he’d made of a full and a quarter moon, and two stars. They are always the last thing placed on the tree.
Our crèche figures came from Sterling’s Five and Dime on the Magnolia square. I found their twins in Arezzo, Italy, decades later. Daddy crafted the crèche out of wood, branches and grasses he’d cut from our yard. The floor is shredded grass and the roof is made from dried reeds. It’s at least 50 years old now.
My felt and sequin stocking is tiny compared to today’s kits. Mama made it, and I treasure it. Catlin has two stockings – one felt and sequin that I made – with a train on it as a nod to mine, and the second a beautiful one that Mama’s best friend knit for her at birth. It arrived with a simple note – “Your mother loved Christmas.” And I will hang Mike’s stocking – the sequin and felt woodland cabin with bears that I made him just last year. He was so proud and happy that, at 62, he finally had a stocking made just for him.
The list goes on and on – and we all have that list. Even if it’s just one precious item…even if they are duplicates for which we’ve searched to replace items long lost to time…a huge part of our Christmas memories revolves around these small bits that we see only once a year.
And I believe that makes them even more precious. We never tire of them, since we see them for such a very short while. From the moment the Macy’s parade Santa comes into view until we pass through Epiphany, their time with us is brief. Yet we keep their memory in our hearts throughout the year.
Each Christmas as we age, we treasure these old friends more. We make sure their stories are passed down to the next makers of holiday magic, knowing that one day we, too, will be part of the fabric of Christmas lore and blessings.
But this year, we are still here. We joyfully continue to make holiday magic for ourselves and those we love, both present and unseen…at 62.
At 62 