Each year we would wrestle the giant cardboard box out of the attic and down the fold-up ladder to its place of honor on the toy box to be gently unpacked. At first, as toddlers, my daughters were only allowed to watch as each ornament sprung forth from its tissue paper cocoon. Their eyes danced with excitement as one by one the characters, buildings, animals and sparkling pine cones were revealed. It was as if old friends came each year to share and add to our holiday joy.
The Christmas tree had been carefully selected. Sarah and I preferred fat trees that barely fit through the door. Kate and Jim preferred tall thin trees that dared the angel to find room at the top. A compromise was always found and we hauled our treasure up onto the front porch for its trim and mounting into the wrought iron stand. The ever present cat and dog gave the final inspection and approval before the intruder came into our home.
The lights were strung, multi-colored and festive, before the gold beaded garland. Now it was time to hang the ornaments. A tradition of telling the story of how each ornament had come to find its place on our tree had been established my mother and my grandmother. The girls would sit with rapt attention as each tale was told as it had every year.
There was the tiny glass church that looked exactly like the place that Jim and I had married. A tiny angel made of gold safety pins and glass beads had been made by Grandma Kid, our neighbor. On family vacations we had purchased a seagull and sailboat in Rockport, a golden leaf was from Vermont, a Mickey Mouse was from Disney World. My mother had given me a silver spider whose Christmas legend had been lost a long time ago. Sarah selected ornaments that reflected her sweet tooth: sugar coated cupcakes, fruit slices and shiny lollipops. If there was a penguin, that would be hers, too. I had acquired a fuzzy sheep, a Santa hugging a cow and a stack of chickens. Kate possessed a soft ball pitcher, horses and snowmen.
As the girls got older, they would recite the stories. Each detail had been committed to memory. It was if there was a sacred wisdom being passed down from generation to generation through the telling. The girls knew the rich history of my mothers and my grandmother’s ornaments. My grandmother had glass ornaments from England, tarnished real silver garland and hammered brass leaves from Germany. My mother’s ornaments were beautiful. Her favorite was a long glass hand painted Pinocchio. I could never understand her affection for this pointy fellow, but there he was, always front and center.
My assortment of ornaments has changed through the years. The girls have taken many of theirs with them to seed their own collections. The construction paper and dried dough decorations have long ago departed. The majority of our favorites were lost when several years ago, the tree slipped out of the stand and fell onto the hard wood floor. There were not many survivors. Over time, some of my mother’s and grandmother’s items have joined mine. A cloisonné teardrop followed me home from a trip to China. I was gifted with a deerskin horse made here in Montana. New friends mingle with the old.
There are years when I travel back east to visit family for the holidays and the ornaments stay in the box. There is no tree that year. They wait faithfully in their wrappers. I have the same rush each time I bring them out. It does not matter how much time has passed. I smell the orange peels and cloves that I used to keep boiling on the wood stove. The girls are once again covered in frosting and sprinkles decorating Christmas cookies. The music is playing Oh Holy Night. Presents are hiding in the attic ready to be wrapped. The stockings are ready to be filled with Santa’s treasures.
This cardboard box is worth the world to me. It is a container of cherished memories. I may be old fashioned, but I’m ok with that label. There is no price that can be placed on a little felt angel with button eyes and ric-rac trim that says “Sarah 1992” on the back.
I can’t wait to unpack my old friends again this year. I will tell myself the stories in front of the fire in the cabin. It’s a Wonderful Life will be on my screen. Somethings change, somethings stay the same.
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