December 22, 2019 – Envelopes in the Christmas tree

         When I was successfully married to my husband, the corporate executive, who wore wing tip shoes and elegant ties to work daily, we moved residences seven times in our first eleven years of marriage.  That is seven different states – not across-town moves.  We were chasing the dream jobs that would ‘go south’ on more than one occasion.

         We packed and moved and tried our best to put down roots and then, the company would fizzle out and we would buck up, put on a brave new face, and head on to the next new job, in a new city or town in this crazy merry-go-round of corporate life.

         I learned so much about life during this process; you are ‘home’ where your empty suitcase is propped in the back of your closet.  You make the best of what is offered to you. You stretch out and try new things, new food, new experiences, but it all comes down to the paycheck. Do we have enough to live on?  You make acquaintances, but only a year or two in one place does not make for many lasting friendships.

         During all those moves, there was one consistent thing that kept my chin up, my Mom’s weekly letters and at Christmas time, the “packages across the miles from home”.

         Christmas was fun back then as postage was reasonable, and you could buy lots of fun things, wrap them special and shove them in a big box and your Christmas would arrive at Mom and Dad’s and there would be ‘surprises’. 

         Always I found something from where we lived for my parents to enjoy.  I sent them the glossy coffee-table book of Kansas City with its beautiful full-page photos when we lived in Overland Park, Kansas on the outskirts of Kansas City. 

         Several years I filled the crevices between the presents in the Christmas shipping box with unshelled pecans.

         “Oh! Pecans,” Dad said when Mom handed him the telephone to say Merry Christmas. “Every night I crack a bowl full and put them in a container so that Mom can make us a pecan pies.”

         Then, one year I planted sweet potatoes and had a bumper crop.  I tossed in a half dozen.

         Dad commented, “I see that red clay soil is good enough for sweet potatoes.”

         It was easy back then, Christmas and Christmas shopping.  I knew what were treats, or for fun, or necessities.  I miss the hunting for perfect gifts and the shopping, wrapping, and packaging. Mostly the coming up with surprises.

          Now, I am like a row boat lost from its mooring, swashing in and out of bulrushes, afloat just barely, scraping bottom, almost beached.

         I miss the “the spot-on gifts” that Mom used to send me.  I miss the “gardening” gifts Dad used to send me.  I miss the clever gifts tagged, “For the both of you.” And, most of all, I miss the two envelopes that were always found at the top of our box of Christmas presents along with a small package wrapped special with a big tag that said, “Open now, for the tree”.

         When I phoned to tell Mom their packages had arrived, she always said, “Put those envelopes on the tree and open them on Christmas Day.”  We never opened any presents early – what would be the point – then there would be no Christmas for us. 

         I’d slip the envelopes into deep recesses of the branches of my Christmas tree knowing there was a little bit of green stuff for us as they often didn’t know what to buy us.  The open-now box was always a Christmas ornament or Christmas decoration, now cherished.

         This morning I noticed a card tucked between a stuffed polar bear and a wooden rocking horse – things I put under the tree for interest – under our Christmas tree. It is a card from my husband.  I retrieved my card to him and slipped it up against it, and then I bit my lower lip trying to check the tears as there are no envelopes in my Christmas tree this year from my parents, those ceased a few years back. 

         It is surprising how happy memories can sometimes hurt.