In my hand I hold a glass angel. The angel, circa 1924, was my mother's and it was always placed on the Christmas trees of my vTC childhood. I am glad it has survived all our moves.
I am trimming the tree alone. I like being alone with these ornaments from the past. I daydream as I wonder, where did my mother get this beautiful, hand-blown angel? I have no idea.
It is among the few handmade decorations that were part of yesteryear when craftsmen took more time and things were not all high-tech.
I tell myself, don't get sad on this December day before Christmas, mother wouldn't like it.
I has been 17 years since we've put up a tree because we usually go to our oldest daughter's house in Richmond for Christmas.
But this year, all four grown children and their families are coming to us, as it is our turn to "do" Christmas.
Next in this worn box that smells like dusty attics are the primitive cardboard bulbs with stripes we had to buy in l941 during WWII, still garish and the wrong colors.
Now in my hand is a hand-blown ornament in the shape of a pheasant with a lovely waxed lace tail -- a dear friend brought it from Germany -- 1956. I can see her face.
Here come Mor Mor and Far Far -- tiny wooden, hand-painted dolls in Santa suits, representing the Swedish grandmother and grandfather at Christmas time. They were a gift from our oldest son when he was studying in Sweden -- let's see, that was 1974.
Mor Mor and Far Far have happy faces and make me mindful of the intense joy I felt when he and his family came home and we met them at the airport.
Here are other baubles, a brass trumpet and small tokens from distant friends from distant times.
And here are two needlepoint ornaments with "noel" woven on them.
They are from a wonderful Dutch friend, my only Dutch friend. She died of a heart attack two months ago at her home in the Netherlands. She was only 64.
I pause to cherish.
Suddenly I am besot with nostalgia that won't go away as the tree is almost completed.
Now I reach the bottom of the box, and find a nativity scene hand-made from cardboard, glue and pipe cleaners. It is a barn-like creche made by an 8-year-old the year he learned how to wire lights and construct.
The figures include a plastic baby, Mary the mother, Joseph and two shepherds -- all of clay. And an angel with white cotton wings hangs over the nativity.
There is still hay glued to the barn floor.
I smile, my eyes a little wet, because I remember how hard our youngest son secretly worked -- in his room to make the creche light up with bright red and blue lights. I think it was 1962.
On that Christmas morn the gift looked like a Las Vegas stage for the Flintstones. I remember how proud he was.
Materially it was a meager Christmas. My husband had just lost his job, but we made up for the scarcity of gifts in family spirit. I received a lot of hand-made jewelry and pot holders from the girl children that year.
Ah, tender moments of Christmases past.
I take his now-frail pipe cleaner angel and place it on the top of the tree. It will be a symbol, a wish for faith, love and peace.
I think it will be a splendid Christmas, and just maybe the angel will sing, too.