My mom loved Christmas. She always made sure our Christmases were beautiful, no matter how many other things she may have been juggling, no matter how much stress she might have been "managing." Like the year she took our live tree into the basement and spray-painted it white.
I'm sure Dad helped her lug it up and down the stairs, but he would have been grumbling the entire time about why the hell we needed a white tree. Never mind. I knew Mom had seen one somewhere and admired it. She'd said "I can do that," and then set out to do it.
I remember seeing it standing on the dirt floor of our Michigan basement. (Yes, that's a thing.) We didn't go down there much, but painting a Christmas tree was a special event. Mom made us go upstairs, though, when she started spraying. The next thing I remember was seeing it in the living room, where Dad put on the lights--with much direction--and Mom hung the string of pink glass beads. I thought those beads were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. They had been in Dad's family for years, and I always suspected that they'd once been red. Pink was better, though.
If we short people were allowed to help with the other decorations, I'm sure some rearranging was performed after we went to sleep. Mom was an artist, and in charge of her own masterpieces, as displayed in the photo.
Look at those dolls...the doll house...the buggies! (Oh, and the stuffed kangaroo for brother Mark. When we were kids, it was definitely better to be a girl.)
Mom grew up during the depression. Her father was an immigrant from Malta, and there were six kids in the family. She never received a doll for Christmas. She told us stories of getting new socks and underwear. That would explain her life-long passion for dolls. My sisters and I always had the most beautiful dolls she could find. Later, she became a doll artist herself, creating exquisite works of art in porcelain.
As a mother and grandmother, Mom enjoyed Christmas as much as the most enthusiastic kid. Later today, when I bring down the boxes of ornaments, I will be reminded many times over what the season meant to her. I will play her CD's and be surrounded by memories as I decorate our tree, hoping that she would be pleased.
Merry Christmas, Mom. And thank you.
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