stoopbeck

Ah, Christmas lights. And ornaments from who-knows-when. My great-grandmother's kissing ball, and the ones we made back in 1997. That scary spoon angel Danny brought home from school back in time immemorial, now guarding the top of our tree. The dancing jug man, made for my father when he was a boy by a real, live mountain man. The flat gold house with the mirror windows that I spent hours staring into, wondering who lived there and why. The silk balls that we got from a friend who, bedridden for six months, got the idea to decorate ornaments herself. The Chrismon I made in Sunday School back in the day. The few remaining ornaments from that first Christmas my parents spent together. The creepy vampire Santa. The happy cherry Santa. The mouthless Santa who leans at a 45 degree angle. The heart given to us by friends three years ago. The last remaining grey glass ball from that one Christmas. The purplish-brownish ornaments that Dad thought were ugly but Mom and I bought in secret. The tiny prism. The battered star. Bits of last year's tinsel that clings to the lights and falls gently to the floor, only to be swept under couches and chairs.

Christmas is my favorite season, mostly for the memories and traditions. Things I can remember doing as far back as my memory goes. It's comfortable. I like that about it.