Decorations for Generations

The entire house will be finished soon, and when it is complete, it will look as if we would need a soundtrack to set the tone for each of our steps as we walk through and look at the alluring array of cozy Christmas decorations.

You know, it is said that half of the fun of these comfy cottage caparisons is found in the actual act of decorating, but I say "BAH!" to such a notion. I would hate to think that once I'm finished, it's half over! There has to be more. In fact, there is more and I am forced to go through it with you...

Concerning decorations...

As we enjoy the season, it is an integral part of one or more of our evenings to drive around admiring the houses donned in their holiday apparel while thinking on days we've forgotten until that very moment. Days when snow was not a question; when aromas were never void of apples, cinnamon and spices; when Granny was alive and laughing in that chair by the record player; when batteries were included but power switches were not; when a bag of switches was the ultimate deterrent. We smile to ourselves and continue the trek to find bigger houses with more lights and larger nativity scenes.

Every community seems to also have within driving distance a house which begins the festivities months in advance stringing thousands of lights whose combined energy will exact double that of their house payment. We drop a dollar or two into a homemade box nailed near the entrance or exit and step into another world. A world where Santa really does exist; where he's never bothered with health conscious gratuities but is lavished by longing little ones with cookies cooked with cautious care in order to more fully thank him for the wonder he brings; where candy canes are currency; where elves are the majority and adults are the lurking Jabberwockies seeking only to remove our place on the precious "nice list." These are the only places which contain a feeling for which children long almost as much as that blessed dawn.

These are just the outside decorations! We've hardly come inside which is where we must go for the true sentiment. I'm talking about the pieces which are bigger than any yard could contain for neither Macy's nor Bloomingdale's could even price these objects and heirlooms.

There's always that one piece which conjures more reminiscence than a library of photo albums. For me it is/was a small, half-of-an-egg shaped, musical, ice-skating scene. It was barely the size of two or three of my father's palms wide, candy cane red on the bottom, and flattened on top by a mirror underneath which was a set of rotating magnets. These magnets were attached to a type of mechanism which, when wound, would guide a most in love Mr. and Mrs. Claus across the "ice" while spinning the two lovebirds to music and rendering an Olympic skating performance worthy of Greece itself all within the confines of the Harris living room.

Just the thought of this takes me back to days when the journey from the majestic hills of east Tennessee was as anxious and amazing as the final peregrination to Heaven itself; when the load of bright, colorful, gifts all loaded in clothes baskets slept tightly in the back of a maroon Nissan mini-van bound for paradise; when only Mom knew what was in these presents and Dad, like other dads, would simply say "You're welcome! Merry Christmas!" when thanked by their recipients because he had no idea what they had opened, but he was more than thankful for that blessing of blessings who barely slept so that the gifts would all be wrapped; when the pile of surprises beneath Memaw's tree seemed to spill onto the floor and consume an entire room; when the greatest honor which one could receive was the moniker of "Santa" which meant you would be the one passing out all of the gifts; when any given member of the family could find a small, soft, lovingly wrapped bag of the finest, white, calf-length tube socks money could buy; when the kids would have to be told to open them anyway, though they already knew what the wrapping contained, because no one would want to make sweet Edith King feel bad; when the tree on Taggart avenue was the organic version of Babel reaching high into Heaven itself entertaining deity.

Laughter, love, longing, family, faith, fudge, beauty, babies, hope, Heaven, cold days, icy nights, wood stoves in Memaw and Granddad's living room, people sleeping in every room of every house, holiness, Jesus, Mary, mangers, music, pies, packages, and pizza potatoes.

No. I have yet to enjoy a time of decoration so much that I would attribute half of their enjoyment to simply pulling them out of the basement corner and placing them on hearths, mantles, pianos, coffee tables, counters, dining tables, bathrooms, rain drains and yards. As fun as that is, I must give all but one tenth to the days when we were gods, kings, jesters, servants and beggars all in the same day.

And, in the midst of complaints and weariness over broken ornaments, molded boxes, needle-covered floors, crowded stores, annoying remakes of Christmas songs by punk kids with electronic explosions in the place of the traditional wood-block sounds in the "...pop, pop, pop..." line of "Let it Snow," please remember that someone did it all for you so that deep in the exiles of the hallways of our hearts we could exhume these warm feelings and memories once a year of days when Harrises, Jenkinses, Maxies, Cherrys, Brookses, Mustains, Maultsbys, and Kings were still found physically present around our holiday tables, and we, too, must continue these traditions for the generations ahead so that all who come behind us find us faithful in our decorations.