The Snowman sits at his piano and pounds out three melodies: Oh, the weather out side is frightful, jingle bell rock, and finally have a holly, jolly, Christmas. And David, my youngest son, still delights in watching the motion of this battery operated Hallmark toy.
Today, however, he didn’t do laps around the room. David sat and reminisced about Nanna. “It’s not the same, Mom.”, he said to me after the Snowman had entertained in his historical fashion. The Snowman was so much more fun when he was at Nanna and Poppa’s house.
And then only seconds later, he and I were back at decorating the tree… Nanna’s artificial tree that she had given to us when she down-sized to a foot-tall model that sat on her stereo cabinet.
Was this the same tree that sat in a box for years in our basement? Hmm. David thought it was much smaller than he had remembered it being at Nanna’s house.
Yes, it is the same tree. It’s just that now, this tree is the tree that Nanna gave to us – and that makes it special. More special than a tree that we could chop down ourselves.
As David and I assembled the pieces, spread the malleable limbs, and then wrapped the lights around it, we talked about Nanna and Poppa. “What I like most about Christmas David …. is tradition”. Tradition anchors us to our roots, our memories, our heritage.
“What I like about Christmas, Mom, is family.” , said David.
God bless him, that little boy. His Christmas list that I opened to read today asked for hugs and kisses.
He is a sentimental little guy, our son, David. I love to spend time with him – and I love lighting the tree with him – and talking about his memories of Mom and Dad. I feel much more reassured that their memory will live on through our children when we remind out children about the wonderful things we shared.
This is the first time that we will not share it with Nanna and Poppa… yet they are everywhere … when I open my heart to them. They are in the tree, the wreath, the photos, the children, the decorations… the list goes on. Christmas is a season of memory – of tradition – of hope – and holly – jolly … or so the Snowman says.