Holiday Decorations
This year I hoped we would have a tall Christmas tree, one that when we put the star and angel on the top, we’d need to climb a ladder. Long branches drooping under the weight of ornaments, skimming the piles of wrapped gifts. A tree that I could sit under and hide from Santa – next Christmas I’d probably be too big. Instead my father went to his Greek friend at the vegetable stand on the highway crossroads and got the smallest tree they had. My little sister and I didn’t get to go with him to get the tree. He just showed up with the little thing.
I had never thought of our family as too poor to have a proper-sized tree. We seemed to have everything we needed: two kids, a mom and dad, a car, a house that was the same as the others on the block. The same, except for this year. This year our rooftop wasn’t outlined with colorful lights. Plywood Santa and his reindeer staked out their territory on the lawn next door.
With resourcefulness and resignation, Mother draped the coffee table with a cloth so the tree was at least as tall as we were. She hauled out the old cardboard boxes, dusty and dented and taped together at the corners. Inside, each ornament was wrapped carefully in worn tissue that we saved to rewrap them after the holiday. I worried about the tree lights. They were old, with cloth instead of plastic sheathing the wires and an old fashioned plug. Paint had cracked off the lights in some places. It was my dad’s job to put up the lights. Then he disappeared into his study while we draped the tree with tinsel and colored balls. Even though it was small, our tree sparkled while we admired it and listened to carols that evening. I wanted my father to share our excitement, but he said he was busy through the tightly shut door.
On Christmas morning we drove the two hours to my grandmother’s house so we could finally, finally open the presents. Santa had left our stockings to stave off our begging to ”just open one present.” This was the only day of the year that my sister and I could eat candy before breakfast. My mother’s sisters and their families filled our grandparents’ tiny house, but Mimi, my father’s mother was not there. “Where was she?” I wondered. I missed having her lap to sit on and her pillowy chest to lean against. Daddy told us that we’d visit Mimi on our way home. After a long day of playing and eating, we drowsed in the back seat heading for home.
Mimi had moved to a new house, one with a parking lot, a cross on the wall above her bed, nuns, and lots other ladies. At her bedside in the hushed and unfamiliar room I stood by my father as he sat stiffly in a chair. We looked at her, and that she didn’t know me, her favorite grandchild, scared me. We didn’t stay long.
It was dark when we arrived back home, silent and empty. My father went to his bedroom while Mother put us to bed. Usually Daddy tucked me in, first wrapping me in a blanket tightly – the mummy bag – and then drawing the bedcovers up to my chin, but I guessed tonight he wasn’t feeling so well.
I had never thought of our family as too poor to have a proper-sized tree. We seemed to have everything we needed: two kids, a mom and dad, a car, a house that was the same as the others on the block. The same, except for this year. This year our rooftop wasn’t outlined with colorful lights. Plywood Santa and his reindeer staked out their territory on the lawn next door.
With resourcefulness and resignation, Mother draped the coffee table with a cloth so the tree was at least as tall as we were. She hauled out the old cardboard boxes, dusty and dented and taped together at the corners. Inside, each ornament was wrapped carefully in worn tissue that we saved to rewrap them after the holiday. I worried about the tree lights. They were old, with cloth instead of plastic sheathing the wires and an old fashioned plug. Paint had cracked off the lights in some places. It was my dad’s job to put up the lights. Then he disappeared into his study while we draped the tree with tinsel and colored balls. Even though it was small, our tree sparkled while we admired it and listened to carols that evening. I wanted my father to share our excitement, but he said he was busy through the tightly shut door.
On Christmas morning we drove the two hours to my grandmother’s house so we could finally, finally open the presents. Santa had left our stockings to stave off our begging to ”just open one present.” This was the only day of the year that my sister and I could eat candy before breakfast. My mother’s sisters and their families filled our grandparents’ tiny house, but Mimi, my father’s mother was not there. “Where was she?” I wondered. I missed having her lap to sit on and her pillowy chest to lean against. Daddy told us that we’d visit Mimi on our way home. After a long day of playing and eating, we drowsed in the back seat heading for home.
Mimi had moved to a new house, one with a parking lot, a cross on the wall above her bed, nuns, and lots other ladies. At her bedside in the hushed and unfamiliar room I stood by my father as he sat stiffly in a chair. We looked at her, and that she didn’t know me, her favorite grandchild, scared me. We didn’t stay long.
It was dark when we arrived back home, silent and empty. My father went to his bedroom while Mother put us to bed. Usually Daddy tucked me in, first wrapping me in a blanket tightly – the mummy bag – and then drawing the bedcovers up to my chin, but I guessed tonight he wasn’t feeling so well.
posted by Anne B Wright at 12:14 PM
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