Decorations hold memories of happy Christmases

Last Sunday, I took my dad to see a special showing of “It’s a Wonderful Life” at the movie theater. It’s more or less going to be a tradition for him and me. We started it two years ago, at which time we made an agreement that I would not make fun of him for tearing up at the end like he always does. To be fair, I kept my word — and like a good daughter, I even had a napkin ready in my outstretched hand for him to dab at his eyes at the scene where Harry Bailey says, “A toast to my big brother George, the richest man in town!” I may have smirked a little, but our deal about my not making fun of him didn’t cover facial expressions.

After the movie was done, Turner Classic Movies host Ben Mankiewicz came on screen to wrap up our cinematic experience by saying, “If that ending didn’t make you cry, you have no soul.” Of course Dad wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to turn to me and say, “YEAH.”

We’ll probably discuss this today when our extended family gathers at my parents’ house. One of us will mention that we went to see the movie. I’ll specify that we have a deal that I won’t make fun of Dad for tearing up at the end, even though by doing so I am in fact making fun of him. Dad will be a good sport and respond by quipping, “I have a soul,” in a rather posturing manner while everybody chuckles. It’ll become a thing — a memory that we dig out each year around the holiday.

My family has enjoyed some pretty great Christmases over the years. Every time I walk into my parents’ house during the holiday season, the decorations my father puts out always prompts a flood of memories of those Christmases and the people with whom we’ve enjoyed them.

In the corner of my parents’ dining room sits a Christmas-themed wooden box with the word “NOEL” on it, a homemade craft my grandparents did together. As a child, I loved that box because it was always full of candy. As an adult, I love it because it reminds me of my grandparents. (And because it’s still always full of candy.) Bob and Mary Lou Cole were a neat pair. He was the expert craftsman who built the box in his workshop. She was the talented artist who painted it so beautifully. (And kept it full of candy.) The box was one of many projects they collaborated on together during their long and happy marriage. I miss them every day.

A 7-foot tall artificial Christmas tree stands in the corner with just enough space between it and the ceiling for a tiny little star. It’ll never be as nice as the real ones we had during my childhood, when my dad would take my brother and me to the Green Branch Tree Ranch where we would cut down our own and haul it back to his Ford Ranger. Even after my mobility issues made it too difficult to participate and Rob eventually went away to college, Dad decided that we would have a real tree as long as Lucky, the Cole family cat, was alive to enjoy it.

Lucky loved the Christmas tree. He never attempted to turn in into his own personal playground like you see on so many videos these days — tipping the scale at 20 pounds, he didn’t dare try to climb it. His paradise was found underneath the tree, with its earthy scent and its soft comfy tree skirt on which he’d curl up for hours at a time. That tree even came with refreshments which as far was Lucky was concerned were just for him — for most of the month of December his beautiful white chin would be stained with the rust that rubbed off on him while he sipped out of the metal tree bowl. Lucky was a part of our family for 20 Christmases. It’s amazing he lived that long — he was so fat. I loved that cat.

After Lucky passed, the Coles finally switched to an artificial tree. Like many family Christmas trees, it’s adorned with a collection of ornaments that might not look like much to anyone else, but are special to us. One is a little wooden jack-in-the-box clown. It’s a bit tacky-looking, to be honest, but it has carried great sentimental value ever since my mother received it as a gift during the Christmas season in 1983.

At the time, Julie Cole was in her late 20s and was it was still early enough in her pregnancy that she had not yet told any of the her co-workers at the old Bohemian Savings and Loan Association that she was expecting her first child. She also did not know the sex of the baby; only that every single kid born to both her and her husband’s siblings had been a boy.

Needless to say, then, she was taken aback when a colleague of hers named Shirley approached her with a little Christmas trinket and said, “Julie, you’re going to have a baby. And it’s going to be a little girl.” That following June, I was born — the only girl on both sides of my family. By the time I was old enough to learn the sentimental value of the ornament, Shirley had passed away from cancer.

The story of the tacky jack-in-the-box ornament has an addendum now. My mother, who is now retired, joined the temporary staff of election officials I oversaw this past fall during the early voting period. (Any day a girl gets to be the boss of her own mother is a great day.) On one particularly bustling day, she waved me over to her station to introduce me to the voter she was serving. Having recognized the voter’s last name, Mom asked if there was any relation and learned that the voter was in fact Shirley’s daughter-in-law.

The voter had not met her husband until after Shirley had passed and therefore only knew her late mother-in-law through stories. That afternoon, more than three decades after her passing, the voter and her husband got to hear one more about her and how she knew of my existence before anyone else did. We’ll never know how Shirley knew that my mother was pregnant with me or how she knew that I would be a girl. But now, thanks to a chance encounter at a satellite voting center in a shopping mall, two more people get to be a part of that story, part of that memory held so dearly by my mother and me.

As the years go by, those memories will continue to live on. Like the decorations that come down next week, they’ll be tucked away and stored until they’re brought out again next year. As a child I loved presents — the teddy bear I received as a toddler that played a Christmas song every time I squeezed its paws. The walkie-talkies my brother and I got when I was 10. The boom box I received as a 13-year-old complete with a state-of-the-art CD player.

As an adult, I just love that we’re together as a family. I love that we’re happy to see each other, I love that we crack jokes at someone’s expense as our way of showing affection, and I love that we’re able to bring out old those memories and make new ones at the same time. I also love that my grandparent’s candy box still is full of candy.

Comments: 319-398-8266; althea.cole@thegazette.com

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