Taking Down the Christmas Tree

I know that possessions shouldn’t matter, but I remember feeling homeless. This feeling was most pronounced on our first Christmas together as a family. We had just moved into a new apartment, and the house I grew up in had just been sold. I had shelter, a dwelling; but did not have a place that felt like home yet. Many songs celebrate the feeling of wanting to be home for Christmas and if you cherish the season, having no home at that time is especially hard.

Fifteen years later, I feel at home partly because I am surrounded by representations of where I originated, and by items that we have acquired together since. I have furniture and decorations that I can still visualize standing in my grandparents’ house. My grandfather’s engineering textbooks and drafting tools represent his journey from Italian immigrant to successful American citizen. I have the pictures my cousin, the photographer, took of the way the kitchen and dining room looked just before their home was dismantled following their deaths. From my husband's grandparents’ house, we have items that can be seen in the background of snapshots of family celebrations, standing on the shelves. Sometimes when I clean our first major purchases: a picture, a microwave, a coffee table, I remember the care that we took deciding if we could afford them. The picture was $135, and it seemed like a fortune to spend on an item that was not a necessity. I water the plant that was given to my mother by my grandmother when I was born. The TV we watch sits on the same cabinet that contained the TV I watched growing up; that I remember my parents picking out at the cavernous furniture store that was like kid heaven. There are things I purchased in an attempt to make ugly little apartments into beautiful places (all from discount stores, of course). Portraits of the kids on the walls. Photo albums full of birthdays, trips, family gatherings and funny moments.

For better or for worse, my home is a representation of me. I am a product of my past, much like all of these things from others have been assimilated into one home. I cannot imagine being homeless once again, or having it all destroyed by a fire. Neither can I imagine being surrounded by generic store-bought furnishings with no history. Sure, such furnishings might be prettier, less worn or coordinate better, but they are meaningless. I delayed too long getting rid of a couch that was downright dangerous with its springs poking out, because I remembered sitting on that couch at my grandmother’s house with my husband in the first year of our marriage. As we sat back into it, we wondered together if we would ever be able to afford something this nice. Imagine my surprise and delight when she offered us that couch a few months later! These tangible remains of history may be shabby or have little monetary value, but to me they are priceless.

I never gave much thought to the term “homemaker” before, but I recognize now that the important contribution I have to give my kids is the stability, the roots and the starting point of a home. We provide them with raw materials such as love and empathy; and moral values such as hard work. We give them what we are, which in turn comes from our families of origin, good and bad. We can choose the good, and allow the best of our families to flow through us into the kids. The things I am surrounded by remind me of all this. I know the things themselves don’t really matter; that what matters is what lives on in me and ultimately my kids. But memory fades, even when you don't want it to. Holding a solid object in your hands can bring it back like it happened yesterday

This powerful remembrance happened while I was taking down the Christmas tree, upon which so much of our history as a family is represented. Some ornaments were “donated” from various family members in those first lean years when we had very little, both materially and in terms of experience, and could not have made it without their support. These ornaments illustrate how we struggled, yet created a home out of next to nothing. No matter how tarnished they may be, these ornaments will always remain a part of our tree. There are ornaments that mark special events, from the kids’ first Christmases to the first year in the house. There are ornaments we’ve gathered over the years that represent things we’ve enjoyed together: Ren and Stimpy, Harry Potter. Ornaments signifying jokes we’ve shared, like the Elvis cow. Ornaments made by the kids in school. All the ornaments given to me by my own mother, whose love of Christmas is the reason why that time is so special to me.

The very practice of collecting ornaments to commemorate special events comes from my mother. As a kid, it seemed almost silly that she would get Christmas tree ornaments on family trips. It was summer! Nowhere near Christmas! When you are young, you are too busy living in the moment to concern yourself with remembering, or to take note of the passage of time. You fearlessly draw heavy marker X-es through the days on a calendar. But as an adult I am too alarmed by the rapidity with which time flees to do this. And now, as I carefully pack away these memories for another year, I understand the importance of marking these moments. I am glad that my mother showed me how to remember.