the iridescent reflections bouncing off our dozens of ornaments. My infatuation with a beautifully decorated Christmas tree started early. Coming as I do from a small family, there is strong orientation towards those few things precious enough to be handed down from one generation to the next. My home was not the place for the large, noisy gatherings of flocks of aunts and uncles and herds of cousins. I watched those gatherings with confused longing. Compelled by the energy and laughter, I was nevertheless easily overwhelmed by noise and chaos when I happened to step close to friends’ holiday parties of great size. Better for me were the smaller, quieter celebrations. And even as a very small child, still moments of wonder where I could gaze immobile at lights and faceted surfaces were among my most treasured holiday experiences. No place were these moments more powerful than at the home of my great-grandparents. A property that later became my own home, their cabin home nestled in the Northern California redwoods was a dark, green, shaded place of Christmas magic. And hanging from their tree was a universe of delicate perfection – hand-made Christmas ornaments. The ornaments have a tragic origin. My great-great-aunt Pauline, bereft over the loss of her husband, desperately sought preoccupation and distraction. Seeking solace in miniature worlds of Christmas beauty, she ransacked her jewelry boxes and sewing kits for any item of shimmer or sparkle. Foam ornaments covered in fine silk thread became blank canvases for a thousand bead-loaded pins and velvet ribbon. Glass jewels became focal pieces destined to be surrounded by concentric circles of pearl-tipped straight pins. The loops in gold bric-a-brac became
Four generations of ladies — from left: Great-Grandma Palma, Grandma Phyllys, Mom Pat and little Lori in the frilly knickers.
nests for bead-capped sequins. And each crystal-laden globe required a crowned head and pendant bottom – royalty was never so well dressed as these holiday treasures. But my favorite – the one I searched for first every year – was a small ornament of floating stars that made me picture micro-galaxies hanging from the tree. That one was “my” ornament, I made sure all the family was clear on that. As a girl having little experience with generational tradition, it never occurred to me that one day those beautiful things might actually be mine. But then, it also never occurred to me at that young age that the members of my family were transient things on this earth. While my grandmother instilled in us a strong sense of history – telling stories of women in covered wagons and treks across the country to California’s central valley – the characters in those tales seemed more like myths than relatives. In my immature head, my family sprang to life organically after an imaginary set of pioneers parked themselves near an olive grove. Perhaps cabbage leaves were involved, I was unclear on the process. But in 1976, when my great-grandma Palma – Pauline’s sister – died from a stroke, most of those ornaments became my grandmother’s, moving from the magic cabin in the woods to her urban apartment. Despite hanging then from hooks on mirrored shelves rather than the branches of evergreen trees, the hand-made ornaments captured my attention and spoke “Christmas” to me louder than any stop-animation special ever could. My grandmother, knowing how much my mother and I loved those ornaments, decided that we should have our share while she was still around to enjoy sharing them with us. And so it was that one year when my own son was just past toddler-age, my grandmother