Every December I retrieve the boxes of Christmas detritus form the hall closet. A saber rips at me with the annual appearance of this junk.

At the end of each Christmas season I carefully wrap each ornament in an aging piece of facial tissue, so old the fibers barely hold together. What protection I imagine this will provide is curious enough. The outstanding question is why I cared to protect this pie of trash from some unknown calamitous event.

My daughter is electrified at the appearance of these boxes. They are hidden away for eleven months of the year. Each December they are released into her life again, treasures, small toys, shiny, and colorful. The living room is carpeted with bits of facial tissue. Colored glass globes are pushed quickly aside in search of the sacred toy ornaments. Each one is welcomed, greeted, and made magic again.

Where are the hangers? Each year I purchase more and somehow during their hibernation they disappear. Likewise the strands of colored lights have ceased to work.

After hours of unwrapping and struggling with lights and hangers, all have lost interest in decorating the tree. I come in,not always with glee, and finish the job.

I hang each ornament in the tree and slowly my irritation abates. I remember pieces of time irretrievable. There are handmade imperfections as harmonious as school plays. Witnessing, chronicling my past ornament by ornament. It is all here. I hold each moment in my hand and carefully place it on an evergreen branch to shimmer and spin for a short time each winter. The ornaments peer back at me winking, glinting, names and dates, I touch the tarnished silver and the faded brass. Propelled into space like a tome traveler, I soar with each memory. I wonder how I have resisted peering at these talismans of my life for nearly a year.

When all the ornaments are in place I turn on the colored lights and darken the living room. I lie on the couch and stare at the tree. I cannot make out the details on a single one of the ornaments. The reflections of the colored lights bounce off all angles exposing new depths and perceptions of each. Overwhelmingly the tree pulses with a life of its own. The individual ornaments disappear and unite into light. Into a light in the darkness of winter, into the darkness of my mind, kindling again my reception to this experience here and remembering to express my gratitude for it all.

I gather up the facial tissue and stuff it into the boxes waiting the day a month from now when I may wrap each memory carefully in its downy blanket and tuck it away for another year.

Merry Christmas to you all! Kelly

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A few years ago I was visiting my mother in Oregon and my dear friends in Portland invited me and my parents to a Christmas Open House that she was giving. It was an afternoon affair.My mother and her husband live some miles out of Portland so we left with the ample time schedule of the elderly who are prepared for any and all roadside disturbances or distractions. We arrived at the stroke of two, the first hour of the open house, so we were the very first arrivals. My mother was armed with a casserole. We were there in the awkward moments while the hosts were still running around filling trays with cookies and putting ice in the buckets. Immediately my mother gave detailed instructions to my friend, Mary, on how to heat up the casserole dish she had brought to share. Ah Mary, so gracious.

The party began to take shape as the others arrived. The children dressed in holiday finery ran upstairs to play and the parents gathered around the groaning board of holiday treats set so beautifully on the dining room table. My mother jumped right in and made friends immediately. Her casserole was warmed and placed along side the other delicacies.

Candles were lit and twinkling around the party rooms. Mikal had a singing Santa Claus on the porch that was movement activated. Santa was singing and swaying as more and more guests arrived. Folks were sitting on the arms of the couch, leaning over to join in the different conversations. I met lots of Mary’s friends.There was a lot of discussion about politics and such, California and trendy restaurants. I met neighbors and old roommates. I laughed with Mikal and his running buddies. It was wonderful. I was an hour and half into the party eating too many German sausages and chocolate cookies, surrounded by interesting, fabulous people, and drinking great wine. I felt like I was in a movie made for television about happy people at a Christmas party. It was perfect. I had been missing this all those years baking for everyone else’s holiday parties. I had always been too tired to attend any or have one of my own. I was just hitting my social stride when when my mother came up to me and gently announced that she and Curt were ready to leave.

Leave? Where could we possibly need to be on a Sunday afternoon that could be better than this? Then she told me, Macaroni Grill. She and Curt had a gift certificate and they wanted to take me there. I could not imagine how I could eat an early bird special after all those German sausages and cookies. My mother can be very persuasive.

Parking was a challenge and it had started to rain so we had to scurry into Macaroni’s. Apparently a lot of people like the early bird specials. Eventually we were seated in the center of this extremely noisy restaurant. I ordered whatever my mother ordered because honestly I didn’t have an appetite, silly me, I hadn’t planned on a big Italian meal “after party”. Curt ordered the Pasta Alfredo, I think he had been holding out at the party. We couldn’t talk because the noise in the restaurant was so loud. I know that our waiter gave us his name because all the wait staff are trained in this annoying way to write their names upside down on the white paper table cloth, so you don’t have to actually hear them. They write it with crayon. They leave the crayon on the table, I guess in case you need to communicate with each other during your meal.

I love my mother so much. I would eat dinner early on a Sunday night immediately after attending a Christmas party a million times again just to be with her. Mom, just a little warning next time so I don’t eat quite as many sausages beforehand.

It was this day and party that has changed my feeling about the holidays. Last year I gave a Christmas party of my own and LOVED it. I had our dining room table loaded with holiday treats. It rained buckets that day last year and friends braved the weather to fill our house with holiday cheer.

Unfortunately my mother left the container she had carried the casserole in at Mary’s party. It was months of conversations about this container before I was able to return it to the rightful owner.

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