Mother's Day 2016

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day, and so far I’ve spent the day: 

1) fielding early morning phone calls from my youngest son who was headed out of town (to a spot where he’d have spotty cell coverage), but wanted to tell me he loved me and wish me a Happy Mother’s Day

2) confirming reservations for our 40^th anniversary trip to Italy next month (!)

3) taking down the Christmas tree.

Yeah, you read that right. It’s the first week in May and my tree is still up.

Now in my defense, it’s an artificial tree, and I’ve had the lights unplugged since the end of January. It’s been wrapped in sheets since March, just waiting for someone to carry it down to the basement—which was supposed to happen when my family was all here for Easter, but that plan was abandoned amidst the glitter once the egg-dying marathon began.

So my once-beautiful tree has been standing in my living room, shrouded by sheets, and making me feel like a neglectful homemaker for months now. But today, I decided it needed to be put away—at least for a few months before it reappears once again, probably over Thanksgiving weekend.

So why, after months of silence on this blog, did I decide that my greatly belated tree un-decorating needed to be memorialized in words? Frankly, I’m not sure. 

While I was removing the ornaments, I was noticing patterns among them—their progression; first, handmade (by me) and dated (I’m big on keeping track of dates), to handmade (by my children) and tragically undated, with their specific creators left to my slightly unreliable memory. Then there are the themed ornaments—musical instruments which paid homage to my childhood inspirations, Santas and snowmen, gingerbread men and Nutcrackers (I collected these for years, so there are MANY). Then there are the collections of wicker bells, gold stars, and tiny silver baskets (really! I thought they’d be adorable filled with candies on the tree, but it only took my first grandchild to convince me that anything that encouraged a small child to reach for and remove things from a Christmas tree was a ridiculous idea. The remaining baskets have been empty ever since—much to the consternation of my youngest grandchildren).

Those of you who know me know that I am slightly obsessed with trivial details. I celebrate obscure anniversaries and traditions, and remember the minutiae of long-forgotten events or dates. I’m a word nut who hoards books, letters, cards, and the mound of “great quotes” tacked on my bulletin board.  

But mostly, I am a romantic idealist who is a sucker for a story.  

And today, I was struck by the stories held within the various objects that up until an hour ago had been hanging—somewhat embarrassingly—on my definitely past-date Christmas tree.

Contained within those objects—now sorted-by-theme or material of construction, and laying in piles on my dining room table—I rediscovered the tales of a brand-new family trying to reinvent the magical Christmases of their childhoods, and the young mother who proudly hung silver macaroni-covered stars, created by her children. I read the story of a budding artist who wove visual leitmotifs throughout her annual creation, and pursued those visions through glass, wood, resin—and plastic.

As I removed nearly a lifetime’s collection of ornaments from that artificial tree in my living room, I listened to their melodies, and counter-melodies, and felt the wordless rhythms of the lives that have been lived out in this house for over 39 years now—and I couldn’t help but smile.

Monday, May 2, 2016 was the 39^th anniversary of the day that my husband and I moved into this house. That morning, I awoke to brilliant sunshine and a keen awareness that I have inhabited the same space on this planet for almost 2/3 of my life. 

May 2, 1977 was also a Monday—but it rained all day (so much for patterns).

Now, if you are still with me after 700+ words, you are probably asking yourself, “Is there a point here?”

That remains to be seen. For the most part this is just a collection of my meandering thoughts on Christmas ornaments, Mother’s Day phone calls, houses, and the continuity of life we somehow find in all of them.

For six years now, I’ve greatly missed being able to call my mother on Mother’s Day, but at least I get to talk to my own kids (sometimes they even visit). 

I’ve been collecting Christmas ornaments for 40 years, beginning with the set my aunt brought me from Germany as a wedding gift. They told the story of a marriage, she told me, and I treasured them for years until I passed them on to my daughter-in-law almost 15 years ago, the Christmas before she married my oldest son.

For 39 years, I’ve walked the rooms of this house. At first, without a history of my own, I wondered over the lives of the strangers who had walked them before me. But now that my own memories crowd every room, I think instead of dangling my hand over the side of the bed to comfort a new puppy sleeping in a box and spending her first night away from her mother, of hovering in doorways watching my babies sleep, or standing in the kitchen talking to my mother on the wall phone with the extra-long cord. I reminisce over backyard birthday parties, mud soccer and bike jumps, Chinese birthday feast shared sitting on the floor around the living room coffee table, Mother’s Day pancakes, and laughing till I cried as a friend played Christmas carols on our piano with the broken soundboard. Our first wedding anniversary was celebrated here—as well as the vow renewal ceremony we held for our 25^th. 

In this house, I’ve met good news and bad. Elation and tragedy. The inescapable stuff of life.

The things that make up my story. 

So, for those of you who are celebrating Mother’s Day tomorrow—whether for yourself or your mother—I wish you a blissful day and another memory with which to build your own story.

And thank you for indulging my long-windedness. If you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to my tree...