December 9, 2007

• 
  As I write Tuesday night, I’ve just gotten home after receiving the
  sacrament of Confession at Mary Mother of God, where more than 100
  people stood in lines for up to an hour to help prepare our hearts for
  the Christmas season. And as I sit down after 9 to finally write this
  column, I have to start with a confession to you all.
  If you've been
  reading this column, you might remember that last year before Christmas
  I wrote about our storage building being broken into in December of
  2005, when we were just moving to town, and almost all of my family
  antiques being stolen. I also told you that my beloved Santa Claus
  collection was missing, as well as the bin holding my lifetime's
  collection of Christmas tree ornaments.
  My heart was so touched by
  the outpouring of love from friends after that column was published. A
  dear older couple from my church gave me some of their Christmas
  decorations. A new friend, Susie Harper, who since last Christmas has
  left us for Heaven, gave me a bag full of beautiful ornaments,  as well
  as a warm note of welcome and kindness that I'll always treasure; my
  mother, who was in rapidly failing health, asked my little sister to
  pack up some of her Christmas decorations to send me; and my sister
  mailed me an elegant new ornament. And maybe the most touching of all,
  my dear friend Janet in Ozark County, Mo., sent me a package with 11
  handmade wooden angels that she had collected over the years, with
  another loving note that I will always keep.
  Here's the
  confession: After all this happened last December, we found in the
  attic, where we'd stashed a bunch of boxes after the move, a box marked
  "Stockings and Christmas tree ornaments." Excited, I opened it...and
  under the stockings found the Christmas tree ornaments I thought had
  been stolen! I was overjoyed, but I also felt bad that these kind
  people had given me ornaments thinking mine were gone forever.
  So that's my confession. I kind of feel like an ornament-rich fraud.
  Last
  Saturday, Doyle and I went to the Omaha Christmas tree farm and picked
  out the most beautiful tree of our lives. On Sunday night, with carols
  playing, a cinnamon candle burning,  lights turned low and Christmas
  tree lights twinkling,  I hung the ornaments, the old ones and the new
  ones, my heart full of tender memories.
   A fuzzy yellow Woodstock
  ornament that Jamie picked out for me and paid for when he was six. A
  blizzard of white snowflakes that my mother-in-law Ruby crocheted. The
  counted-cross-stitch ornament my cousin made 28 years ago for Alex'
  first Christmas. A sequined drum made by my grandmother Poppy. A
  blown-glass red pepper I bought in Albuquerque on a trip to see my baby
  sister in 1989.
  A pink flamingo to remind us of Sarasota, where
  Doyle and I met and married, and where a majority of our dearest ones
  still live. A little pizza made of flour-and-salt dough that Alex made
  when he was  eight. A tiny handmade basket Doyle and I bought on my
  first trip to Mountain View. A family of Dickens-era dolls given to me
  by dear old friends back home.
   Two little-boy hands cut out of red
  felt, one with a blurred picture of Alex at five, one with "Jamie"
  written in green glitter. A purple rhinoceros earring that belonged to
  my Grandmarie, my Gulfport grandmother who loved gaudy earrings. An
  embroidered baby reindeer my sister Cissy made me in 1980, and a tiny
  beaded stocking she stitched for Mama. A reindeer cut-out that Melanie,
  one of my students, gave me, with a sweet note written on it in gold
  paint.  A miniature airplane that reminds me of my Daddy. A carved
  pelican from Pauley's Island, bought as a memento of the only Taylor
  family vacation we ever took after all of us grew up. A tiny train
  bought to remind us of the Amtrack trip my little boys and I took from
  Meridian, Miss., to Washington with dear friends. Still waiting to be
  hung are the sweet angels, which will each be inscribed with the name
  of a loved one who's already crossed the River.
  Different colors,
  different shapes, some old and faded, some fresh and shiny-new, some
  handmade, some bought in an expensive shop.
   As Doyle and I share
  this third Christmas as man and wife, my 51st Christmas, my first
  Christmas without my Mama — I'm thankful for each one of the people,
  and their friendship and love that these ornaments represent. Like my
  life — and, I imagine, yours — our Christmas tree is decorated with
  love from old friends and new ones, from dear ones who've already flown
  away, and from those whose lives still touch ours every day.

  Published Dec. 5, 2007
  Copyright Harrison Daily Times
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  • 4:32 pm
  • 8 Comments