Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Our Okie Christmas was a delight.
Loud. Messy. And wonderful.
(I think we bring the loud and messy with us.)
There was a little something special under the tree at my parents' home this year. A gift that threatened to get my eyes to watering. And spilling over. And going for the ugly cry.
But luckily, my brother beat me to it.
We received our stockings that we had as children.
And just to make us even more melancholic and teary, we each had a beautiful box of the ornaments from the Christmas trees of our childhoods...
It's so funny, how a little figurine of plastic can hold so many memories of sight and smell and experience...
My kids were fascinated by these little dime store treasures, sacred relics of a Southern California childhood with Christmases spent in the high desert. Little ornaments that made the various moves with us, from coast to coast, following the Space Shuttle program as my dad's career in rocketry burgeoned.
I brought my stocking and my box home with me, another layer of childhood retained and yet somehow exchanged into the adult woman I aim to be. What is it about the items of our childhoods that somewhat keep us children in the homes of our parents until the transmission of those items goes into our hands, a trust to be handed down? My kids look on these ornaments the same way I handle the precious dolls of my mother's childhood and the ceramic horse that belonged to my dad. Museum pieces of our heritage. Little clues of the kids we used to be. And are still, in those little window seats of our hearts.