See that ornament?  It’s made from plastic canvas, intricately cut and stitched until a snowflake magically appears.  I’m not sure how old it is . . . how many years I’ve gently pulled it from the boxes where the ornaments for this tree are stored and then searched for just the right spot to place it, but I know the woman who made it—my husband’s grandmother—died in 1992 and it had already graced our tree for a decade or so before that.  The year she made these, she gifted each of her grandchildren with at least half a dozen. Before that she had made little white mailboxes trimmed in red which she filled with money and hung on the tabletop tree that sat at the end of her den.  That year everyone was allowed to pick their present from the tree, although at the time I’m not sure any of us realized the greater gift wasn’t the cash she shared but the container in which it was given.  That money is long since gone but every year those mailboxes are also placed on the tree, surrounded by Christmas lights and memories.

On Christmas morning we’d always migrate to her house (it was just down the street and around the corner) for breakfast, much to the dismay of our children since just moments before they had received an abundance of stuff they were now required to leave.  We’d gather around the table in her not quite tiny, but almost, kitchen and come away smelling of country ham and red eye gravy, and full of biscuits with butter and whatever kind of jam or jelly you wanted.  And molasses.  There had to be molasses.  And mountains of scrambled eggs.  Only when the size of the family outgrew the size of the table did we move next door to his parents’ house for the same feast.

When my children married and started their own Christmas traditions, I invited them to the house and told them to take the ornaments that meant the most to them.  And each one chose some of the snowflakes and the mailboxes that were theirs.  Because those were wrapped in her love and spoke of someone long since gone yet still dearly missed.

In the morning I’ll start pondering the schedule for the coming days . . . when I’ll do the mac-n-cheese for Christmas Eve at my daughter’s . . . because her son loves the story “The Snowy Day” where the grandmother always brings her mac-n-cheese that tastes like love on a winter’s day (mine’s ok, but I’m not sure it rates that high) and she knows how excited he’ll be when his Mona walks in with a panful of the stuff.  I’ll start planning for Christmas breakfast at their house and what my contribution will be . . . and how I’ll get ready for Christmas supper and when I’ll make all the desserts for all the meals.  And is it really possible to get the chaos of Christmas morning cleaned up before our meal with my brother and his family the next day? None of which I mind.  All of which I love.  And all of which takes planning and preparation . . . and groceries.  But tonight?

Tonight, the house is a mess with ribbon and paper scattered everywhere and unwrapped presents still in hiding—just in case a recipient happens to come by unannounced.  Tonight, the cookbooks are still out so I can search for the recipes my family has grown to love over the years.  And the grocery list . . . I’ve got to make the grocery list, or I’ll leave behind half of what I need.  But instead of tending to all of that, tonight I’m sitting in the silence, watching as my feelings become words and scatter themselves across the screen of my laptop.  I’ll gaze at the tree with its brightly glowing lights and all the memories it holds of years past and people who are no longer here.  And I’ll invite them in so I can relive our time together.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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