Welcome to this year's addition! There were other moments with my mother that marked my passage into adulthood - when she pulled the car away from the Reed College campus after depositing me and my belongings for my freshman year, for example (she swears I looked terrified; I recall nothing of the sort).
But the threshold-crossing that I remember best at this time of year is when she packed up my Christmas ornament collection and shipped it across the 3,000 miles that separated us. Her aunt Scooter had started the family ritual, bestowing a special Christmas ornament upon me and my sister. My mom adopted the practice, curating each year's offering from a museum gift shop, a local arts and crafts sale, or her travels.
Christmas was typically crappy at my house growing up, my father's comings and goings and poorly kept secrets adding reckless speed to the usual rollercoaster of heightened expectations and dashing disappointments. But the annual ornaments, unwrapped on Christmas Eve, never failed.
By the time I was fully established as a West Coast resident - my trips back east for the holidays no longer annual and that "home" (as defined by wherever my mom lived) shifting with my mom's career moves - my ornament collection had grown to several dozen. My mom sorted through the boxes, separating the twinned pairs - each of my ornaments matched by one of my sister's, thematically related but as distinct as she and I. My mother nestled each into the protective sleeve of a wine carton. Taped and addressed, some of the best of my childhood made its way across the continent to me.
Since I've been the custodian of my own collection, others have added to it. For a few years I held a tree trimming party but the truth is, I prefer to place the ornaments myself. The newest goes up first. I no longer wait til Christmas Eve to unwrap my mom's latest. She sends or delivers it earlier in the month, triggering my always-fervent announcement to Amber, "We need to get my tree!"
The bird wing of this eclectic menagerie is now the largest - I like to put them together up at the top. The oldest ornaments, all faded felt and unravelling gold thread, go on the more private back side of the tree revealed when I open the pocket door to my office. Writing this at my desk, there they are - talismans of my childhood.
Other ornaments bring their own associations. The one from the Alaska State Ferry trip where my grandmother spent a week narrating her life's story into a tape recorder. The ones made by the kids in my life, to whom I will someday bequeath my collection.
This year I decorated the tree the way I like it best. My mom was in town for a visit. She and Amber and I ventured out to a neighborhood tree lot - too cold to cut our own, we decided (we are a practical clan). Amber took care of getting it in the stand and hanging the lights. And then my mom unpacked the battered old wine carton, releasing each treasure from its shroud of old wrapping paper and packing peanuts. She handed them one by one to me and I found them each a place on this year's tree.
But the threshold-crossing that I remember best at this time of year is when she packed up my Christmas ornament collection and shipped it across the 3,000 miles that separated us. Her aunt Scooter had started the family ritual, bestowing a special Christmas ornament upon me and my sister. My mom adopted the practice, curating each year's offering from a museum gift shop, a local arts and crafts sale, or her travels.
Christmas was typically crappy at my house growing up, my father's comings and goings and poorly kept secrets adding reckless speed to the usual rollercoaster of heightened expectations and dashing disappointments. But the annual ornaments, unwrapped on Christmas Eve, never failed.
By the time I was fully established as a West Coast resident - my trips back east for the holidays no longer annual and that "home" (as defined by wherever my mom lived) shifting with my mom's career moves - my ornament collection had grown to several dozen. My mom sorted through the boxes, separating the twinned pairs - each of my ornaments matched by one of my sister's, thematically related but as distinct as she and I. My mother nestled each into the protective sleeve of a wine carton. Taped and addressed, some of the best of my childhood made its way across the continent to me.
Since I've been the custodian of my own collection, others have added to it. For a few years I held a tree trimming party but the truth is, I prefer to place the ornaments myself. The newest goes up first. I no longer wait til Christmas Eve to unwrap my mom's latest. She sends or delivers it earlier in the month, triggering my always-fervent announcement to Amber, "We need to get my tree!"
The bird wing of this eclectic menagerie is now the largest - I like to put them together up at the top. The oldest ornaments, all faded felt and unravelling gold thread, go on the more private back side of the tree revealed when I open the pocket door to my office. Writing this at my desk, there they are - talismans of my childhood.
Other ornaments bring their own associations. The one from the Alaska State Ferry trip where my grandmother spent a week narrating her life's story into a tape recorder. The ones made by the kids in my life, to whom I will someday bequeath my collection.
This year I decorated the tree the way I like it best. My mom was in town for a visit. She and Amber and I ventured out to a neighborhood tree lot - too cold to cut our own, we decided (we are a practical clan). Amber took care of getting it in the stand and hanging the lights. And then my mom unpacked the battered old wine carton, releasing each treasure from its shroud of old wrapping paper and packing peanuts. She handed them one by one to me and I found them each a place on this year's tree.
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