Our Christmas decorations seem to multiply like rabbits. As newlyweds we owned a skinny, artificial, table top tree that could barely balance under the weight of two dozen airplane ornaments that I purchased on clearance at a paint and wallpaper store. Twenty years later our tree has grown into an eight-foot monstrosity and I have found myself the target of much grumbling as my husband lugs no less than 150 pounds of holiday decorations up the basement stairs.
Several hours into decking the halls our living room is a sea of packing paper. I am in a recliner with my leg in a cast because the stress of the holidays isn’t quite enough. I desperately want to get up and rearrange the nativity scene so it doesn’t look like some sort of funky football huddle but since my kids are trying to stand in for my lack of mobility, I sit still. My husband, the Grinch of Christmas lights, has just discovered that not one of the 625 tiny, white bulbs on the tree will light up and is threatening to go with a “naked” tree this year. I am contemplating hauling him out with the holly until my daughter opens a box of ornaments and nostalgia blows through the room like a Chinook wind.
There is an ornament that says Our First House. Calling it a fixer-upper was the understatement of the year. We referred to the ugly décor as “the refugee look” and did all the refurbishing ourselves. We didn’t have the money to do otherwise. The house was 720 square feet and housed four people.
The John Deere tractor represents the Christmas we spent on a farm in Pennsylvania. My husband had a broken leg and a weary temper. I had a toddler and an infant. We packed up and drove ten hours to a change of scenery to prevent divorce or murder. It was the only time in our married life my husband had that much time off at Christmas.
A glass Starbuck’s mug reminds me of two coffee-drinking girlfriends I left behind when I moved from Chicago. The last time we were together we went underwear shopping and laughed harder than I can remember doing in a long time. Both women are pieces of me and the squeeze around my heart keeps me from thinking about it for too long.
My kids line up a collage of ornaments from every year that they were in grade school. They laugh and poke fun at the photos but I love their cherub cheeks and missing teeth. Their faces are pasted on the bodies of elves, angels and snowmen. Junior high and puberty put an end to all that.
My parents sent wooden ornaments from Germany the year they went to see my brother, overseas in the Army, just before he ended up in the Gulf War.
Suddenly, the Christmas tree is illuminated by a white glow of light as my husband plugs the cord in the wall and smiles in a less-than-Grinch-like manner. I smile back and the kids begin to hang the ornaments and the years of accumulated memories on the tree. On the radio, Aaron Neville is crooning Silent Night in his angelic voice. It’s not quite Currier and Ives, but almost.
