Growing up, my family had few traditions. I was jealous of clans rich in heritage. We had no family silver, no great-great grandmother’s patchwork quilt. Our handed-down recipes often came from the back of soup cans. And though I still celebrate it on a weekly basis as my family has throughout the ages, I doubt 99 cent Whopper night at Burger King counts.
Tradition, however, did visit the Johnson household every December. That’s when my mother and I would take to the stores to purchase our annual Christmas ornament. And we weren’t looking for just any ornament: It had to have the year stamped on it. “How else would you know when you found it?” Mom would ask rhetorically. No one ever argued the point.
Being a not-so-wealthy brood living in Southeast Dallas, our journey only once led to Neiman Marcus. When I was 8 years old, we took the bus to the downtown store. “A special treat,” my mother called it. I marvelled at the glittery bulbs. Mom nervously fingered the silk scarves. We left empty handed but full of inspiration. Once home, Mom pulled out the Avon cosmetics catalog and we splurged, ordering a silver-plated reindeer ornament. Naturally, the year 1974 was etched into its handsome hindquarters.
As soon as I became an adult with a home and tree of my own, I began my own ornament tradition. No local five-and-dimes for me. For a man of taste and monetary means, only Neiman Marcus would do. Throughout the years, I’ve expanded my search and scored some dazzling finds. There’s the hand-blown elephant with Turkish flair from Stanley Korshak, a sterling silver sled from Tiffany & Co., a particularly stark yet elegant snowflake from MoMA, and, in a moment of questionable taste, a bedazzled bulb from Jay Strongwater.
The point is, my Christmas tree was elegant and tasteful. It was a tree worthy of the murmurs of admiration it garnered at my annual Christmas party. I was happy, and I had a tradition. Life was good.
Then last year, Mom changed everything. She deemed Christmas “a holiday for children” and gave me all of her ornaments. Just like that my Christmas tree had been integrated. Could ornaments from Sears and Saks coexist? It seemed unlikely but since the family Christmas dinner was now served at my house every year, what choice did I have?
Fast forward to last week. I climbed up into the attic and dusted off Mom’s storage boxes. I begrudgingly rummaged through the ornaments. There was Winnie the Pooh from 1972. Pooh has always been one of my favorites, and Mom, in a moment of weakness, bought this “pricey” porcelain ornament. It was by far the most expensive of the bunch. Then I found the one from 1979. It was supposed to look like stained glass but was made of plastic. I’d always been fond of it. The tarnished “gold” Santa Claus circa 1982 had my name etched on it. One by one, I removed the ornaments. Three hours later, I sat in a pile of crumbled tissue paper, empty boxes, and memories.
So, maybe it won’t be so bad. Yes, I’m sure the murmurs I hear from my party guests this year won’t be of admiration for my tree. I’ll just have to put extra work into the wreath. And I still have reservations about this mixing of the ornaments, but obviously memories are more precious than one’s aesthetics. Tradition marches on, whether it’s made of crystal or plastic.
But don’t get your hopes up too high, Mom. Consider yourself forewarned: The Thomas Kinkade ornament collection stays in the attic. A man can only take so much.
