By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
Something about this time of year makes me—and I daresay a great many people—especially reminiscent. Traditions are built by pulling meaning from years of moments, and if Christmastime is anything, it is filled with tradition. And if I am anything, it is a sucker for tradition. So I have a lifetime to look back on and remember fondly, and today feels like as good a day as any to revel in those seasonal, stick-out memories.
There is one piece of decades-long tradition that I can see in my home right now. As I type, I can glance over at an aged nativity set. The little stable is missing a few pieces of straw from the roof. The donkey—oh, the poor donkey—apparently received a great deal of attention back in the day. So much so that he bears a very clear line marking the misfortune of his decapitation. Did I mention that all of these figurines are made of some sort of porcelain-type material? I remember being fascinated by them as a child when they sat in my parents’ home, and honestly, I am amazed that everything survived with nothing more than one super-glued-on head and a chip on a sheep’s ear.
My mom gave me this nativity set. She got it either while she was pregnant with me or when I was less than a year old—she can’t quite remember which. I think it has done rather well for something knocking on the door of forty-five years. My daughter is always initially intrigued by it when it first emerges from the attic each year. I cannot tell you how many times the manger, baby Jesus and all, mysteriously ended up in the hay loft of the stable, leaving Mary and Joseph admiringly gazing at a suspiciously empty space. Her tricks weren’t particularly dangerous, but there was always the possibility of one accidental slip from the loft and a landing on a cow, which made it all just a bit risky.
I am rather fond of the idea that I will someday pass this nativity scene on to my daughter. I can’t help but wonder if she’ll remember hiding the manger when she was younger, or what her own children might do when it is set out in her home. I wonder if they’ll play with the figurines as I did, and how much super glue their interactions might require. I would love to think this could become a family heirloom passed down through the generations, though its fragility doesn’t bode particularly well for that dream. The original box has already disintegrated, as has the second container that followed it. It will be interesting to see how this family treasure endures the test of time.
There are many traditions I remember fondly from childhood, and just like the old nativity set, I’ve held onto them and carried them into life with my own family. Some aren’t particularly meaningful—like always having pizza for dinner on Christmas Eve. It may not be very orthodox, but we all love pizza, and it’s a welcome change from the traditional holiday meal that follows the next day. We also open one present on Christmas Eve, though we aren’t allowed to choose it ourselves. Someone else, who knows what hides beneath the wrapping paper, decides which gift will be opened. Usually, it’s something we can use that night—a family game or pajamas. It’s a lovely teaser of the excitement still to come, both practical and anticipatory.
These traditions were once practiced with my parents and me in their home. Now, my parents come to mine. They spend the night, wake to gifts and food, and celebrate not just with the three of us, but with the addition of a son-in-law and granddaughter. The traditions remain, changing only in location and number—an appropriately seasonal version of the more, the merrier.
I suppose we all have things that forever return to mind when we see the lights, spot the decorations, or smell a certain cake alongside simmering cider. I hope I never take those happy little holiday walks down memory lane for granted. I want to be present enough to recognize when the magical moments are happening. That way, years from now, I can recall how they felt and relive the joy and wonder all over again. That may be the best tradition of all—to store these experiences away and hoard them like treasure, so that in leaner seasons I will have a brimming vault waiting to be opened.
Prose and Possibilities 