Every Tree A Story

December 19, 2018

I lift out of the bin an ornament with a chubby hand print captioned ‘baby’s first Christmas’ pressed over 14 years ago by a child who is now taller than me, in high school taking honors classes and saving for a car. We pull out brightly painted trains, artistry by preschoolers now lifted out of boxes by teenagers laughing incredulously at their painting jobs. Crystal soldiers and my grandmother’s silver bell, the wreath my Aunt Peggy made us which I place with a grateful prayer. The magi with their mystical gifts on the Epiphany, thinking of my father who passed on this day.

We lift out photographs of grinning first graders with missing front teeth, and pensive babies sitting on the laps of strangers in fire engine red velour suits and full silver beards. There is the Clara Nutcracker ornament that was too beautiful for my youngest to place on the tree, which rested on her bedside table so every night and every morning she was the last and first thing she would see. Clara now dangles next to me in a white organza dress with red trim holding her beloved nutcracker.

Ornaments from teachers such as the ladybug heart from second grade, angels from grandma, and the yellow New York City taxi my son would play with for hours while we decorated, the last always to get placed. Handmade cookie ornaments from First Church Preschool in Old Greenwich, still smelling like cinnamon, Mickey Mouse and snowmen, vibrant Radko ornaments and lots and lots of Santa Clause. A tree of memories …a tree of family… a tree of hope.

Every summer at the shore we select an ornament from Paisley Christmas shop in Stone Harbor, NJ. This year they were baseball ornaments selected by a Phillies phan (because they are the best) and a Yankees fan (because this is a family where the lion lays by the lamb). They dangle side by side next to nativities and snowflakes. And every time I look at them I am in Stone Harbor with my favorite guy laughing at quirky ornaments and leaving with the perfect pair, now here in our home.

We have a tradition started by my dear Aunt Helen where every Christmas I give my children an ornament which someday will go on their own tree. One day they will lift candy wreaths, and wooden soldiers from bins and memories will rise of tree decorating, and cookies, gingerbread houses, and carols with every nativity, every star, every sled and snowflake.

My grandfather, Da, had a plug in (I think) bird call sound on his tree and every Christmas all the grandchildren would look for it for hours and could never find the bird. He would say I saw it there this morning, and or it must be in there – keep looking! We would look under and over and around and couldn’t find the bird, only the loud persistent chirping. And to this day as a mother in her 40’s, when I hear the same bird calling I am at my grandparents on Elmwood Avenue in their living room circling their tree and looking for the mysterious bird.

This tree is a living and loving memory. This tree holds family, and love, and hope.

There is a sadness when Christmas is over. Another year is boxed up with memories, and stories and placed into bins in the eaves of the attic and tucked into the corners of our hearts. Until next year when we bring down crates and boxes to take out silver teapots dangling from string, crystal doves, carolers, sleighs and wreaths. We remember the Christmas past, we celebrate the present. This is the gift of the magi. This is the gift of love.