The Christmas tree in the living room went up three days ago. Decorating is slow going because each ornament has a story to tell. The oldest is a plain glass bulb I received from my grandmother when I was five. Each of my siblings received one out of a box of six but theirs were broken almost immediately. I treasured mine and there it is, Christmas after Christmas. It would shatter if dropped so I hang it high, away from the cat. Three plastic gingerbread men were the first I bought for myself, so old they were made in Japan. Then there are the stuffed toy-like ornaments I made when Chris was a toddler. Next to hang are all the craft projects he and I made in those years. The little teddy bears came from a art show I attended with my mother. My oldest sister knit tiny hats and mittens. My niece, today a university professor and renowned expert on potatoes, crocheted a heart when she was still in grade school. My youngest sister gave me the Twelve Days of Christmas. My grandson likes to find them on the tree. His photo is on an ornament that plays "I love you, Grandma. Mehhy Christmas." He was only three and I dread the day the battery wears out. Friends have contributed to the tree, too. Last year, a choir member gave me a bell from her collection. A friend from New Zealand sends me an angel each year. One by one, these treasures go on the tree. The first week in January, I reverse the process, each time remembering, remembering, remembering, as I put Christmas away for another year.
My decorations will never appear in Better Homes and Gardens, but I wouldn't trade them for the world. How could an interior decorator improve on a tree of memories?
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