When one begins to get a few years under their belt and around the midriff, special occasions call forth a flood of memories. Christmas seems to have its own filing cabinet for recollections ranging from favorite toys to most memorable disaster, best family cook to “yes, I’ll go, but I’m not sitting next to … (fill in the blank of the relative you most would like to avoid)”.
One of my traditions acquired as a grown-up (whether I’m an “adult” depends on with whom one is speaking) has been that of purchasing commemorative Christmas ornaments from special vacations, that represent an interest or special characteristic of mine or someone in my household, or that I just like on its own merit. Regardless, there are always new ornaments to grace our trees. You notice that “trees” is plural; we have three decorated trees this year.
Decorating the tree has become my task each Christmas — probably because I’m so very anal about where everything needs to go, not having visible wires, and determining the tree “themes” each year.
My husband gave up on decorating the tree and that, frankly, suits him just fine. He prefers to string lights from every available twig in the yard.
It’s hard to believe that so many memories are packed away with the ornaments each year. Opening the boxes, unwrapping the tissue and taking my first look at those little carefully crafted treasures calls forth memories I never dreamed would still be so vivid.
One Christmas, the purse strings opened to a pretty dismal content and the ornaments, while outwardly not unlike others on the tree, tell that story every time I see them. Instead of spending $15 apiece on an ornament for my toddler daughter and one for me that year, I found something to commemorate the year. They were $2.50 each on sale and they were not part of my series started several years before, but $15 was a lot more money back then than it is now. Those ornaments represent my “I walked ten miles to school in snow piled up on the shoulders of the road, it was so deep” story to the younger members of our family. (I always wondered how parents in Georgia think they can get away with that walking in the snow stuff…) Mr. Fix-It and I have always loved to travel and our ornaments serve as a travelogue of sorts as we recall visits to New York, Niagara Falls, Hawaii, Yosemite National Park, Texas, Los Angeles, and See Rock City. Scattered among the Rockettes, guitars from the Grand Ol’ Opry, and the White House, though, is one that represents a tradition begun the Christmas after Mr. Fix-It and I married in 2000.
The day after Christmas, my beloved arose early and went over to his favorite DIY store to check out the decorating bargains. When he backed the truck into the garage a couple of hours later, I knew we were in trouble.
“Look at this stuff!” His eyes danced as he opened the back and began pulling out his treasure trove of new goodies for our Christmas décor the following year. Bubble lights (we’ve never used), yard signs (we’ve never used them either), and a million strands of twinkle lights later, he looked like he’d bust his buttons over the next “find”.
“Can you believe they had this?” he exclaimed as he pulled out a smiling plastic yard snowman complete with shovel, top hat and carrot nose and a Santa Claus with a decidedly chocolate brown face.
I’m not big on plastic yard stuff, but not wanting to throw a wet blanket on his excitement, I came up with the best rationale my horrified mind trying to figure out how to avoid Mr. Snowman on the front lawn could muster: “Well, dear, we don’t have that much snow here at Christmas, so that’s probably why he was left.”
As for Black Santa: he’s become part of the Christmas family at our house. Spawning his own series of black Santas scattered around our house during the holidays, Black Santa welcomes guests, peeks in windows, and guards the deck with Mr. Snowman at his side. The unexpected guest has become a treasured piece of our Christmas not unlike the unexpected guest the world received some two millenniums ago.
May your Christmas be filled with precious memories, joyful traditions, and the gift of Christ. Merry Christmas!
Helen Person is a Winder resident and columnist for the Barrow Journal. You can reach her at helenperson@windstream.net.
