The first of several much-loved Christmas decorations that pop into my mind are these three vintage elves on skis. Among my parents’ first holiday trinkets, they’ve been a part of my Christmas as long as I can remember. Mama recalls buying them in the very early 60s during a rare, day-after-Thanksgiving shopping trip to the St. Matthews Mall near Louisville.
Produced in Japan in the 1950s, the elves have plastic heads with hand-painted, apple-cheeked faces and pointed, flocked-paper hats. Bodies are pinecones. In their pipe cleaner arms each holds a musical instrument: maracas, a paper accordion, or cymbals. Cardboard glitter-coated skis are glued to each pinecone, the elves have no feet. Apparently they don’t need feet; they’ve managed quite well without them for the past sixty years. It was comforting to see this merry elf trio displayed prominently on my parents’ tree again this year.
Decorating the Christmas tree in my childhood home was a much-anticipated event. We usually picked out a tall Frazier fir, typically well shaped and on the thinner side. An exception was the bushy long-needled pine we somehow brought home during my Kindergarten year, which I wrote about in 2013. (See Oh. . . Eww. . . Christmas Tree!) It was sparsely and evidently indifferently decorated. Why we chose such a tree remains a mystery; that’s a memory my parents and I have blocked. I suspect we’d rather not think about it, or other memories it stirs up. Anyway, my recollections of Christmas in Atlanta include a beautiful tree, pleasingly decorated. It made our living room especially cozy during December.
We acquired more ornaments each year, but we rarely retired any, unless they were broken and hopelessly beyond repair. We didn’t do themes of color or topic: no all-pink tree, no Disney tree, certainly no Star Wars tree. The collection accrued gradually. Unpacking the same ornaments year after year, then re-packing them in January, they became imprinted on my memory. Each December I looked forward to unwrapping my favorite ones and finding spots for them on the tree. I’ve written about the many homemade ornaments my mother and I produced every year. We turned out multitudes of candy cane horses, tiny Raggedy Anns and Andys, mice in Santa suits,clothespin toy soldiers, pasta angels, etc. My home and that of my parents are well-stocked with such items. But there were other ornaments, some homemade, some store-bought, that were one-of-a-kind. These remain at my parents’ house.
Since our daughter turned two, it’s been our tradition to spend Christmas here at our home in Virginia. My parents joined us, until two years ago, when they gave up driving long distances. They’d rather not fly, so they prefer to stay in Atlanta. This year Mama told me she didn’t really feel like putting up the tree. Daddy, especially, would really miss it, but he felt even less up to the task. It sounded like my cue to fly down for a pre-Christmas visit. When I realized I could also miss my daughter’s final week of classes before winter break (and all the stress and drama that threatened to entail), it made the decision that much easier.
So a week ago, I was back in my childhood home, unpacking the many boxes of Christmas decorations my mother had stored so carefully in the attic last winter. And one by one, I unwrapped all those cherished baubles. It had been six years since I’d seen them, when we had veered from the usual plan and spent the holiday in Atlanta. Some ornaments looked nearly as good as new, others showed their very advanced age. All were as familiar as the faces of dear old friends.
I’ll share them in a few posts to follow. They may prompt recollections of treasures from your childhood tree.
Once again, it’s December. Too soon, as always. Although the pre-Christmas busy-ness has been no more extreme than usual, the details have kept my mind too crowded to devote time to writing. Or to much thought, in general, for that matter. It’s hard not to let the post-Thanksgiving lead-up to December 25 become an endurance game of checking off never-ending lists. Lights replaced on the playroom tree? Yes. Whew. Cross that out. One small victory. On to the next task, with many more to follow.
Last year I wrote about the fine line between reveling in the spirit of Christmas and veering off the deep end into holiday excess. (See here.) It’s an issue I guess I’ll grapple with until I’m physically unable to haul out the decorations. But that might not stop me. Will I be directing my daughter, or some kindly, younger neighbor? I hope not. But then again, no one else could do it to please me.
Anyway, the wreaths are up on our house and on the old maple stump out front by the road. The stump survived another year. This summer it played host to a thicket of tall green foliage.
As long as any part of the decaying tree remains, we’ll decorate it in December. For me, it’s a reminder of the true spirit of Christmas: because a baby was born many years ago in Bethlehem, out of death comes new life. That is the best antidote to holiday excess I can imagine.
For my first post on this subject, see Deck the Tree Stump, posted almost exactly two years ago.
To all those serving our country now and in the past, at home and far away, during peacetime and war, we thank you. As for those of us who haven’t walked in your boots, may we never take your bravery, your selflessness and your sacrifice for granted. Let’s honor our veterans this day and every day.
It’s that time of year again. As Halloween nears, our friend Slim, who engages in quiet meditation in the spare bedroom eleven months out of the year, comes out to play. His loyal pooches Fluffy and Champ are by his side and ready to frolic.
With Slim out and about, our family is blessed with another errand runner. And designated driver. We need more Halloween candy, Slim insists, so he’s off to the store. Kiko, ever the happy passenger, prepares to ride along.
Kiko reminds Champ to buckle up.
Be a good boy, Kiko, for Uncle Slim!
Here’s what Slim says: It’s the night before Halloween. Be ready for fun!
For last year’s photos of the Skeleton Crew, see here.
Today, we’re back to sunshine. Yesterday’s continuous rain failed to wash away fall’s colors; it simply spread them around with an artistic flair. The weather is mild. It’s a perfect day to be outside, enjoying October.
It’s a day that makes me a bit nostalgic for my daughter’s younger years. If she were seven or eight, we might be heading to Cox Farms after school. This family-owned farm puts on a fall festival that really is fun for most ages. It’s one of our favorite local traditions. We discovered it with a group of friends we met through D’s preschool.
If you live in a suburban or semi-rural area, you probably have a place like this nearby. In Princeton, there was Terhune Orchards, which my husband and I enjoyed. If something similar existed in Atlanta when I was growing up in the 70s, we didn’t know about it. Lucky for me, I didn’t know what I was missing. Lucky for my daughter, she didn’t have to miss it.
Cox Farms is a low-tech, homespun, rough-around-the-edges place, just as a farm should be. As a preschooler, one of my daughter’s favorite “rides” involved rolling down a hill inside a big pipe. There are mischievous goats to feed, various baby farm animals to admire, a cow to milk, and lots of hand-painted folk-artsy plywood signs. Naturally, there are pumpkins, apples, cider and kettle corn. On weekends there might be a bluegrass band.
There’s lots of hay: hay mountains to climb, hay bale forts to explore and tunnel through. Of course there’s a hayride, during which aliens and assorted odd but non-threatening creatures appear. There are many slides, some of which are quite steep. When we first started going to Cox Farms, D was afraid to attempt any of the slides on her own, so we went down them together. That’s when I found out how much fun a fun slide can be. Apparently, I was slide-deprived (as well as fall-festival deprived) as a child.
Our daughter’s first-choice activity was the rope swing with a drop into a foam pit. One doesn’t often get a chance to brag on a child’s rope swing skills, but I must say she had excellent form and always managed to sail to a far corner of the pit. The two photos above are from consecutive years, the first in 2006, the second in 2007. Evidently D’s fall festival uniform consisted of a pink shirt and blue jeans.
In 2007, D added her Brownie vest to the uniform. She enjoys recalling those fashion-forward days.
For several years when our daughter was in elementary school, we had an annual fall festival meet-up with former preschool friends, a brother and sister, and their dad. It was one of the highlights of the season.
Our every visit to Cox Farms ended with the careful picking of a “free” patch pumpkin. D has always delighted in the perfect pumpkin.
It’s been several years since we’ve done the fall festival. But our daughter is now a regular attendee at “Fields of Fear,” held at Cox Farms on weekend nights for older kids and adults. It includes the Cornightmare, the Dark Side Hayride and the Forest: Back 40. As of this year, she and her friends can even drive themselves.
But at the end of the night, D still picks out a little patch pumpkin.
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
