After an angst filled period of weighing the pros and cons of draping the tree with white or colored lights, we decided on the white lights because well...they still worked. I awkwardly wrapped the string around the branches, while the kids began to pull out and unwrap our ornaments - exclaiming, laughing and remembering over each treasure they found.
Each box reveals a mish-mash of ornaments, paper cut-outs and random bits - Paper chains of what should have been snowmen, cut out with safety scissors by a three year daughter; a felt picture frame bearing the picture of my son before he got glasses; the cinnamon scented baked dough, strung with red rickrack that my then preschooler brought home; knitted squares of colorful yarn; ornaments with names and dates printed, engraved or painted on; dented bells clinging to frayed green ribbons. Yes, I will admit to occasionally wishing for a more elegant tree, but as much as I have envied the gorgeously decorated balsams in store windows and magazines, our ornaments are memories of past gatherings that date back to when I was a child.
For as long as I can remember, the Gustavsons (or anyone within earshot of a Gustavson Christmas) received at least one ornament in their stocking-personalized and dated. My big, beautiful family of parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles and wayward friends would gather at my grandparents' house on La Loma Rd, eat too much, talk too much and rip through the bulging stockings around the defunct fireplace. The memories of hugging relatives for their gifts, sneaking another piece of fudge, running outside in the backyard and then eventually watching my own children do the same, are vivid and fondly remembered. Now, living in Vermont, I haven't been back for a Gustavson Christmas in a long time, but the ornaments always remind me and so, I relish the ritual of pulling them out and hanging them on the tree.
Beautiful brass ornaments from the mid-seventies engraved in my grandfather's precise, engineer-trained writing hang at the top of my tree tonight and the ceramic ornaments from the eighties and nineties, where ownership was bestowed with a paint pen in my grandmother's elegant script hang just below. As we move further down the tree, into the 21st century, the tradition continues and my children find and place the ornaments bearing their own names.
Within 20 minutes, I'm alone by the tree. The children have become distracted by their books, toys and each other. The novelty of the ornaments worn away as their excitement for the familiar has been sated. I continue to unwrap and hang the last few, feeling quiet and content as I listen to shrieks of laughter and remember that the Gustavson are with me, even here on a snowy evening in New England.
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| Angela (mi prima) and Me, Christmas at the La Loma house |
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