Now that Thanksgiving is past, it's time to move on to the great American pastime of putting away all the pumpkins and autumn colors, wind up all the things we are thankful for (Biden! Biden! Biden!) and drag out the millions of boxes of Christmas we've had stacked in the attic, garage, under the bed, in the storage space, and in the random desk drawer or dresser or closet, where they hide and breed throughout the year. Somehow we always end up with more than we put away last year. A mystery for the ages.
It will be a lightweight Christmas this year. Four of us, if we are lucky. Kay and Paul and the granddaughters were planning a trip, but, like so many others, decided to stay put and not risk a major cross-country trip. So we 'old folks'--the vulnerable and at risk--are hanging memories on the tree this year.
Which is easy to do: every ornament has a story or a place or a circumstance that sets it apart. I need a couple more years decorating the tree with granddaughters to tell them all. We have ornaments from places we've visited (a Pinocchio from Italy, a reindeer fur elf from Russia, a pewter heart-with-a-horse from Germany). We have mementos of places we've lived (our star was from Tijuana when we celebrated in San Diego), family events (there's that Raggedy Ann from LaJolla the year Kay was born).
The fact that there is no tinsel is a testament to our cats over the years, one of whom actually ate tinsel and walked around with it--undigested-- trailing from his butt afterwards...Instead of that gross tinsel experience, we have tin icicles (from Chadd's Ford in Pennsylvania) and chandelier prisms from a little consignment shop in Springfield, where the proprietor asked what in the world I was going to use them for... There's the tunafish can Santa being kissed by Mrs. Santa: my creation for our first Christmas tree. Regrettably, the cookie ornaments from that tree--camels, trees, our first cat-- have crumbled throughout our history--but I can still remember sharing the backseat of JC's Ford Torino with that immense tree that protruded from windows in all directions on our way home.
And then, there are all the additions over the years from friends and neighbors and relatives: the brass ornaments from the Rogersville Presbyterian Church that were given out--engraved with names and the year--to all children of the church, and were picked up religiously by JC's mother for our girls. There are historic Alexandria and White House, and Mt. Vernon ornaments, and relics of my ceramics phase, where I painted not only an entire Nativity set, but Santa ornaments for each of the girls, where the old gentleman was inscribing their names in his book, followed by gold stars. And even if there was no precipitating event, there are the ornaments chosen by Kay and Sarah over the years on shopping trips to various malls and Hallmark stores and Christmas shops. I am still surprised at how many places and occasions I remember as we trim the tree.
Robert the Bruce is there, in honor of the Scottish sojourn of Kay and family. There's Queen Elizabeth, who commemorates our tenure as Folger Shakespeare Library docents. We have kindergarten ornaments (the mouse in the matchbox) and a clothespin soldier presented to me by Jason, one of my high school students, never to be forgotten. There are ornaments painted by my mom--the scallop-shell angel--and Washington memorabilia from that phase of our lives. When was the last time you saw the Lincoln Memorial on a tree?
I have favorites, of course: the fragile antique glass ornaments from my godmother's tree, the few from our tree as I grew up, including a replica of the tacky 1950's era turquoise (really?!) plastic-and-glitter spinner ornament whose metal blade spun when hung above a warm Christmas light. We have a courthouse from JC's case in Illinois, a plastic Max--my favorite character from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The angel at the top was a gift from my dear friend, Sharon Gaddis; there are innumerable Santas--and a mesquite-wood star, acquired at Kay and Paul's wedding venue. Alexandria is represented by yearly ornaments, as is the White House. When I remembered to buy one. There's even a glass pickle, a gift from Sandy Austin who died far too soon. I have cats, and snowmen, and s'mores, a few sturdy cookie ornaments from 1973--is the camel still there? and Murphy, a freehand cat cookie?--a felt frog from Chicago's Watertower Place, picked up at a weekend Christmas party sponsored by Seyfarth, Shaw, and a Wedgwood angel that Kay and Sarah bought one year on an outing with their babysitter.
Noah's Ark? It's there. Along with a bear in a tricorn hat, just because he was so cute. And of course, George Washington. And a professor, aiming his pointer at a map. And now we've added ornaments from our granddaughters. And we still laugh over the tin ornaments from Tijuana, especially the shepherd whose crook looks incredibly like a hockey stick.
Our decorations have dwindled over the years, largely due to our recent exodus to California immediately after the holiday. Everything we put up has to be packed away before we depart, unless we want to be greeted in March with the detritus of the holidays. However, even with the tree finished, there are boxes remaining: stuffed animals who hang about the stairway railing with big red bows on their necks, waiting for Santa; a china cupboard full of silver and crystal, sporting red and silver Christmas balls to look a little more festive; all my sugars and creamers lined up on the mantel with sprigs of pine and holly, Christmas linens on the table, and greens wherever I can fit them.
I still need a wreath for the door, but the Farmers' Market is usually good for that. And my BIG Santas--the ones that I bought year by year--one each--to stand on tables around the house. One would think that I could distribute some of these things to other family households, but they aren't having any. Perhaps we have scared them off with our yearly moaning that we just don't have enough storage space. But who could throw away Claire's handprint on an ornament from 2011? What brand of heartlessness could consign a single brass ornament to the trash? Or the chandelier prisms that have provided the sparkle on our tree (since our cat ownership precluded tinsel!)?
It is just a tree--even a fake tree nowadays. But it's more. In a way, it's our life, our memories hanging there. I may be the only one left who remembers them all, but every year, I tell the stories to any one who will listen.
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