Oh Christmas Tree.
Of the many traditions in our family, most passed down through the generations of women, our Christmas trees owe a mighty holiday cheer to my grandmother. Packed with lights shining like the North Star, she took days to unwrap, place, adjust, and stuff her trees with ornaments, each one with a family story to tell.
We didn’t appreciate her tree when we were younger, of course. We were too focused on the packages underneath. Those were also her job. All the energy she focused on the trees didn’t extend to those packages. Wrapping was not part of her skill set. Neither was removing price tags.
Eventually we began to look up. Our family’s history hung from those branches. She told us tales about each one, how it came to her, what it meant. We begged to take home our favorites and she always relented, happy to pass them on to those who appreciated their magic.
I think about her each year when I stuff my own trees to the breaking with memories. Among the branches lit like the sun as she taught me, we place our own treasure trove of sentiment collected over the years. We share stories about their origins, reminiscing about trips we’ve taken, experiences we’ve shared, crafts we’ve made together, little school pictures glued to felt.
But everyone knows that the first ornament on the tree is a tiny pair of Christmas stockings, stuffed with old tissue paper and faded over the years. It is the ornament my grandmother bought for her first son, my father. It’s importance continues, my boys clamoring for the honor to hang it front and center. Now it’s the only one of our ornaments to have traveled to a kindergarten show-and-tell, where our family story was shared with the class.
Thanks grandma.