My Christmas Wish

Boomer Musings

By J. Leslie Riseden

When I was a child, the responsibility for decorating our home for the holidays fell mostly on my mother’s shoulders -- as it did in most homes, I suspect. After all, my father worked all day, and my mother was in charge of all things domestic. Unless it required tools, upper body strength, or the eviction of an uninvited guest ... be it of an eight-, four- or two-legged species.

Each year, soon after Thanksgiving, I remember coming home from school one day to find the living room transformed into an explosion of Christmas paraphernalia. Tinsel, ornaments, wrapping paper and bows were everywhere. Nests of multicolored lights lay in a box, awaiting the patience of my father to untangle them and string them on the tree. Some were the oldfashioned kind, with fabric-covered wire and screw-in bulbs, and somehow, they were never wound up neatly from the year before. There were always a few burned-out bulbs, and these were the kind where one dead bulb killed the whole string – so, you had to methodically unscrew each bulb one after another to find the bad one.

Decorating the tree was a family affair. Dad had put the tree in the stand, removed it, cut off three inches so it would stand straight, and put it back in the stand. And, he had strung the lights. So, his work was done until it was time to put the star on top of the tree. My brothers invariably tossed the silver tinsel on the tree in huge globs; my mother invariably removed the globs and carefully hung each individual strand. Sifting through the boxes, I would search for my favorites: the shiny silver and gold horns, a winged angel inside a clear glass orb, miniature musical instruments and crocheted snowflakes. There were always ornaments without a hanger. (How does that happen? They all had hangers when you took them off the tree last Christmas, and they just sat up in the attic all year. How does the hanger come off???)

On the coffee table, there was always a space reserved for a shabbily-dressed little old man, on one knee, his battered hat outstretched in one hand to reveal three tiny coins. Surrounding him were three little porcelain geese. The whole scene barely occupied six square inches, but it was an indispensable sign of the season. As she carefully unwrapped each fragile piece and placed it on the table, I can hear my mother singing lightly, “Christmas is coming; the goose is getting fat. Please put a penny in the old man’s hat.”

My mother’s flair for decorating was unrivalled, and every year our house was filled with the scent of cinnamon and peppermint, and fresh greenery artfully placed in arrangements throughout the house. There was always a huge wreath on the front door, which she fashioned herself. They were never the same from year to year … Glittery pine cones. Holly and berries. Shiny lacquered pecans and chestnuts. Tiny bird nests sprinkled with gold glitter. Big silver bells and red velvet bows.

Carefully staged atop a cabinet, in a place of honor, was the crèche. Mary, Joseph, shepherds and wise men all gazed down at the tiny baby in the manger. Cattle, sheep and a donkey were tethered just outside the manger (which was bathed in the soft light of yet one more tiny screw-in bulb, inserted through a small hole in the rafters.) I don’t remember a Christmas without this little ceramic nativity scene, and the sight of it was warm and familiar.

All these years later, I realize that most of my childhood memories of Christmas revolve around my mother, and are the direct result of her efforts to make our home warm and inviting and joyful. I treasure these memories, and am so thankful I have them. This Christmas season, I wish to all of you the chance to make beautiful and lasting memories with those you love.