I just read a magazine essay in which a woman shared memories triggered by unpacking and hanging her heirloom Christmas ornaments.
She described the love and care that went into the purchase of each one—a silver star commemorated her grandmother’s 25th wedding anniversary, another was a gift to her eldest son on his first Christmas. A clumsy, cracked one fashioned from clay was created by her toddler niece.
The author—bet it was Martha Stewart writing under a pseudonym—described delicate glass orbs wrapped carefully in cotton wool, antique mercury-coated balls, a 90-year-old silk angel tree topper with fine-spun golden hair.
Tenderly, with an overflowing heart, she placed each treasure in a place of honor on her blue spruce tree.
It was a touching tribute to family traditions, and brought tears to my eyes.
Then I blew my nose and pawed through my bags of brand-new Dollar Tree decorations. It’s amazing what you can get for 20 bucks.
The magazine also had a splashy photo feature on clever gift wrap. The women in the story all owned specialty gift or stationery stores. These gals could wrap gravel and make it look good.
Now, I appreciate any clever tips for hearth and home--you’re talking to a woman who fills nail holes with Crest. But really—who has time to gather raffia from the Amazon, wait 10 months for it to dry and then twist it into custom bows?
One woman recommended ironing old crayons between tissue paper for a retro, tie-died effect. (Like that will make me plug in my iron after six years.) Another wrapped her boxes in antique sheet music, topped by a tiny toy violin. That’s just going too far to make a point.
My favorite was the gift wrapped in paper placemats, with ribbons made from paper straw covers that were carefully snipped with nail scissors to create a starburst effect.
Friends, if you ever walk in my house and I’m snipping paper straw covers with nail scissors, game over. Reserve my room at the nervous hospital.
It’s the same way with Christmas trees. A friend of mine takes her family to a tree farm on Dec. 1. They take a Thermos of hot cocoa and listen to “The Hallelujah Chorus” during the drive. Then they tramp around the tree farm catching snowflakes on their tongues (okay, I made that up), and sing a chorus of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” when they find the perfect tree. (That part is actually true.)
They return home with rosy cheeks and the perfect fir, which wouldn’t dare shed a single needle in their lovely living room. The next weekend, they host a lavish tree-trimming party with excellent eggnog.
Here’s my holiday: Cheap trinkets, frayed polyester stockings, wrinkled wrapping paper I’ve kept under the mattress all year; a battery-operated drunken Santa and a snow globe from Disney World. My candy canes are all cracked and my Christmas cards go out on Dec. 26. My tree is a half-dead pine sapling in the side yard, upon which I throw a tangled mass of ugly red, green and blue bulbs from the 1970s.
“No one can see the tree over here,” Widdle said last year.
“That’s the point,” I replied.
I love Christmas, but it always catches me off-guard. I know I should be more prepared, so this year… I’m buying more eggnog.
Julie R. Smith, who likes to wear reindeer antlers, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.