Today we’re having one of the beautiful snowy mornings we are treated to here in New England, the sugary snow that sticks onto the limbs and branches, with the green of the evergreens just peeking through. I wonder if these vistas are a small reward for the shoveling we do in order to do tasks of the days ahead.
One of my tasks this morning is to pack away our “Christmas village” and begin to take down the tree. Thankfully the dogs are outside for a bit of a romp, and The Supremes are providing some background music. Last Sunday was Epiphany 3, and by the standard of some years past, my getting to this work comes weeks ahead of where we are sometimes. Still, as I remove the ornaments, that stranger Sun is actually shining after days of gloom, and I’m moved to take a moment and think about what I’m packing away, decorations which have been hung for three, going on four generations.
First there are the very breakable bells, spheres and stars which pre-date even me, ornaments my parents hung on our tree when I was growing up. Some attach now by ancient pipe cleaners, others by hooks that still feel sharp enough to land a fish. Despite their scratches, these ornaments reflect light; they make me wonder at how they, too, were methodically stowed away as precious by that young couple learning to make their way.
Then there are the sewn, felt stocking shapes that come from my grandparents, and the chains of colored beads that must have carefully place on trees they’d cut from the timber on their farm. Each year at Christmas, these very old homemade mementoes meet and mingle with those from the department stores of the ‘fifties. And all these hang near the paper circles bearing the faces of our kids, all grown, married and most of them with kids of their own. As I gingerly pack the decorated sand dollars they proudly brought home from school, and the stars of popsicle sticks, I spy another felt creation, a green circle animated by lots of colorful, gluey small patches, it’s as though the family comes full circle once again, and I take my place in the middle of five generations I’ve known: two behind me, and two in front.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s time to flip the Supremes, seal up the boxes and stow them for later transport to the shed. But perhaps I’ll put the kettle on before I move too far from the weight, and love, that all of these ornaments represent, the hands that graced their care before me, and the reunion we can experience now in the heart, if not in the same living room.
from the smallest 