Passing the Holiday Baton

          It was just the two of them that Christmas, their first as a married couple. They had put up a lovely tree in their little apartment, drank bubbly in crystal stemware that had been wedding gifts, and shared presents on Christmas morning.
         They dutifully, with gaily wrapped presents in hand, made the rounds visiting family all Christmas day and returned home exhausted. But not too exhausted to sit on their new olive-green couch from Sears and enjoy the twinkling lights on their first tree.
         She was pregnant on their second Christmas and felt ready to explode. Her belly jumped relentlessly as she set a replica manger under the tree. She smiled to herself, thinking of Mary, who would have been swollen too on this very night, almost ready to deliver her baby. She believed she and Mary had the same feelings, excited with anticipation at giving birth to a child. She hugged her belly.
         On their third Christmas, their son was almost nine months old. The new dad wanted to dress the tree - too big for their tiny apartment - after their firstborn was asleep. He wanted the baby boy to be totally surprised in the morning, seeing his first Christmas tree; to see, for the very first time, a tree sparkling with ornaments, tinsel, and twinkling lights.
         So, the couple stayed up half the night fussing with decorations and wrapping presents. It seemed they had just fallen asleep when their infant let out his hungry morning cry.
         But the little boy did have the wondrous look of amazement his dad had hoped for and immediately reached to grab a ball from the tree. The new parents decided it had been worth the long night's toil to witness their son's first look of amazement as he gazed at the tree, wanting to touch every ornament.
         As the years passed, two more children blessed their family, and the dad bought a cardboard replica of a fireplace on which the family could hang their stockings.
         "But how could Santa get down that chimney?" the youngest asked. "It's not real," he added.
         "We will leave a door unlocked so he can come in," the mom answered.
         "Which door?" asked the ever-curious middle child. Their home was now a pretty Dutch colonial, big enough to accommodate their growing family.
         The five voted and decided it should be the back door left open since it led to a yard large enough to park Santa's sleigh, not to mention his eight reindeer.
         Every year they brought out the cardboard fireplace to hang their stockings on. But after years of unforgiving wear and tear, it could no longer be held together with what seemed to be yards of tape.
         Neither could her marriage be held together much longer. Like the cardboard fireplace, it had too many worn out patches.
         One Christmas, the fireplace simply fell apart - like the couple's marriage had been falling apart - and collapsed.
         As she undressed the tree that January, she had the urge to place all the decorations in a large green garbage bag, the kind that held fallen and dead leaves. Dead, just like her dead marriage.
         Years later, she would be grateful she did not throw away all those memories, the ornaments painted by her children, the colored paper chains brought home from school, their pictures enclosed in popsicle stick frames.
         Eventually, love reappeared in her life. Her new love came with two bonus children. She became a new mom again, this time with a beautifully blended family now numbering seven members. They bought a huge house with enough room for everyone, and with the hope it would eventually be large enough to hold new family members. Maybe daughters' husbands, sons' wives, maybe even grandchildren.
The new house had a real fireplace on which to hang stockings.
         At Christmas - now called Christmas for grownups - their enormous tree almost reached the top of the vaulted ceiling of their home's great room.
         Christmas day was now lazy. Oh, there was still lots of laughter, "oohhs" and "ahhs" as gifts were opened, and plenty of love. But it moved slowly, with time to savor the day.
         One by one, the children brought special people to the Christmas table. The years were now celebrated with weddings and blessed with children. And, of course, Christmas every year.
         Eventually, the family grew to have 18 members and she - now a matriarch - insisted that every one of them needed a stocking at Christmas. They could not, however, fit all the stockings on the fireplace mantle, so only those of the seven grandchildren graced that hallowed space. The adult stockings were hung along the stairway leading up to the home's second floor.
         The years seemed to pass swiftly just as philosophers, crones and fogies predicted: Time flies. And, indeed, it did.
         The grandchildren began to have lives of their own, and the cousins annual post-Christmas sleepover ultimately became a thing of the past.
         Their grandparents' mojo also became a thing of the past. Knees began to buckle from years of climbing up and down the steps of their gracious home, backaches were now a daily occurrence, and retirement became reality.
         Of course, everyone still came to celebrate Christmas every year and the walls still held the love and laughter for days after. It was the now-elderly matriarch's favorite day - a holy day when each and every family member would be together.
         But the time finally came to surrender and pass the baton, so to speak, to a younger family member. One of the daughters raised her hand.
         That first year at the daughter's home, although joyful, brought tears. A fountain of them flowed down the matriarch's rouged cheeks as the couple drove to their downsized home in a senior's village. Melancholia with more tears followed for days after. The huge chunk of her life that had been lived so blissfully had taken on a newness she never dreamed would come so soon.
         But it didn't really come so soon. Joyful, family-centered Christmases for her had started in the 20th Century in her own parent's home.
         It was now decades into the 21st Century and she remembered the baton being passed by her own mother.
         As she looked back she felt truly blessed to have had so many joyful family Christmases in her own home. In her reverie, she held fast to the belief that she would be blessed with more Christmas years in her daughter's home.
         But for now, she sat looking at the artificial tree in her little living room, adorned with colorful ornaments and blinking lights.
         Oh, how she cherished each and every ornament that adorned the tree. She especially treasured the handmade ornaments fashioned by her children when they were young and wondering how Santa could possibly slide down a fake chimney.
         All those moments were still alive in her memory and there to keep. She closed her eyes remembering, and ever so grateful those very handmade ornaments never made it into a big green garbage bag.