I am alone in the loft of my condo overlooking the Grand River. Flurries fall, illuminated in the holiday lights along the riverfront, and I feel as if I have been catapulted back in time.
My estate sale boxes of holiday decorations are stacked in the loft, an open area above my living space that I use as my office. The lid remains shut on the nutcracker soldier. There are more in there. I have tried diligently over the years of junking to avoid buying nutcrackers, even going so far as to sell them before I’ve even left an estate sale. They’re too painful to even look at.
The box is heavy.
As is my heart.
I’ve felt alone since the day my grandmother died. It was the day I learned that something you love more than anything can disappear in the blink of an eye and that memories can be just tossed aside as easily as junk.
Junk.
Such an odd word. I once looked it up to trace its origin, discovering that it likely started as a nautical term centuries ago. If I remember correctly, I think it meant “old cable or rope,” which was extended from a ship to gather old refuse or any discarded items.
Old rope.
From the present to the past.
I take a deep breath and begin to create listings for my website.
Victorian Holiday Decorations!
New Finds from a Special Time!
Have a “Dickens” of a Christmas This Year!
Miniature Village
Tiny homes representing a Victorian neighborhood (eight total)
Only $199.99!
Delicate Glass Ornaments
Victorian Fruit-Shaped Works of Art (four total)
Only $99.99!
Embellishments
Lace and ribbon images of angels, fairies, birds and stars (20+ total/all sold together)
Only $149.99!
Sheet Music Ornaments
Crafted from Victorian sheet music and patterned paper
(10 total/all sold together)
Only $99.00!
I begin to upload the photos I’ve taken of the items. I have spent a few days making them look as if they truly are vintage Victorian. They are not. The houses from the miniature village are warped, molded and featured tags from Venture, a discount department store no longer in business. The embellishments were purchased from Michael’s, and the sheet music ornaments were obviously made by children with little hand-eye coordination.
But I’ve perched them under Christmas trees and on pine branches along the river, and even made videos with holiday music.
Most buyers won’t even notice the difference. Some will. They will make my life miserable for a few days when they ask for their money back. But most will not, or they’ll realize it’s not worth the fight. It’s too much hassle to argue with an invisible presence. And those who are enraged and go online to warn others with a one-star rating and toxic review will simply be obliterated by the hundreds of fake accounts I have created that ensure my rating always stays a solid 4-plus.
But Elaine was also right. There were some lovely finds among the holiday bins that I purchased. I plan to post those right before Christmas, when people are desperate for gifts or holiday decorations for a party, or just feel lonely—and I can ask the moon for them.
I skew my eyes away from my laptop and toward the bin of nutcrackers.
And yet I know that if the majority of the decorations I purchased were less than “vintage,” the nutcrackers must be, too.
I take another deep breath to steel myself for the next lie.
Heirloom Nutcracker Soldier from Germany
I collected nutcrackers as a child but must part with them due to a move...looking for a good home for my memories and protectors...
LOTS more nutcrackers available soon!
Only $650.00!
The price, I know, is only a touch inflated were my find to be a true vintage nutcracker soldier in good shape. Pristine-condition nutcrackers can fetch nearly four figures.
I take a sip of my hearty Cab, and then another. It is my second glass, and the wine—which packs more punch than a carnival strongman—is already getting to me. I glance at the box again, and I swear I can see it shake, the nutcrackers trying to break free.
I stand and pull my fleece robe even tighter around my body. I walk over to the box, kneel on the carpet and lift the lid.
A wooden soldier nutcracker with a rifle stares at me. I reach in and pull him free.
My heart skips a beat. He is exquisite. He looks just like the ones I had as a girl.
The nutcracker is roughly a foot tall, the rifle as big as his body, and he is perched atop a little stand in black-and-white boots. He is hand-painted in bold traditional colors. He wears a top hat with a shiny emblem, a blue coat with red cuffs and white pants. The soldier has sky blue eyes and a puff of white hair flowing from the top hat that matches his long beard. A painted white mustache sits atop eight perfect teeth—four on the top and four on the bottom—disguising the spot where the mouth opens.
I know a fake when I see one. This looks incredibly real.
Are my eyes, the wine and all the guilt and memories playing tricks on me? This couldn’t be a vintage Erzgebirge nutcracker, could it?
I spin the nutcracker in my hands.
On the bottom is the original sticker: Original Erzgebirge hergestellt in der DDR.
My mind reels, and I take a seat on the floor. I stare at the soldier and then at the box. All of his fellow wooden countrymen are stacked upon one another. I can’t help but feel sorry for the way they’re carelessly packed.
I pick up another soldier, this one in bright red and white atop a green base, holding a saber. Beneath him is a king holding a scroll. Tumbled to his side is a horseman, much like one I had: a nutcracker riding a rocking horse.
Without thinking, I stand the nutcrackers in a semicircle around my body.
Immediately after my grandmother died, I did the same on the shag carpet in front of my bed. The horseman was set to ride off, the soldiers were lined up before their king, the entire wooden army facing my door, ready to protect me from the evils of the world.
But it was too late: my grandmother was already gone.
My protectors soon followed.
My walls collapsed.
My childhood kingdom faded.
I hear a ding from my laptop.
Someone already wants you.
I actually didn’t lie.
I shut my eyes. I can hear my grandma say, “This nutcracker will always protect you, even after I’m gone.”
All of a sudden, I stuff a king into one pocket of my robe and the horseman into the other. I throw open the sliding door to my tiny balcony overlooking the river, and the north wind smacks me hard in the face. But it doesn’t sober or stop me. I step outside. I dangle the nutcracker soldier, upside down, feet heavenward, over the balcony.
“I hope you can fly,” I say.
I can’t let go of the past.
I can’t let go of my sadness.
I can’t let go of my anger.
But I can let go of this nutcracker, just like I did so long ago.
The cold numbs my fingers, and I begin to unclench my hand.
My grip loosens, and I am about to let go when I see the soldier’s rifle flutter.
My eyes, tearing up in the wind, blurred from the cold and wine, are deceiving me, and I shake my head to clear it.
And that’s when I see it: what looks like a scrap of paper, wrapped around the rifle, fluttering in the wind.
I tighten my hand around the nutcracker at the last second and head back inside. I wipe my eyes, take a seat at my desk and train my lamp on the nutcracker’s arm.
It is a piece of paper, bound around the rifle and sealed, barely, with a piece of yellowed transparent tape. I stand, head down to my bathroom and grab a pair of tweezers. When I return, I begin to unhinge the tape with the tweezers, slowly and carefully, one millimeter at a time so as not to tear the old paper. Suddenly, the tape gives, and the paper comes to life, springing forth as if it has filled its lungs with oxygen after years of being suffocated.
I take the paper and unfold it. It looks as if it came from a small notepad, like the kind my grandma used to keep by her rotary phone to jot down a number. There is slanted handwriting, pretty cursive in ink now faded to the color of a bruise. The words are tiny, and I squint. I put on my readers and hold the paper to my eyes by the lamp. The number one, in a circle, sits in the upper left hand of the page.
Dear Gabriel:
I doubt you will ever know me. Probably only as the great-grandma who died in her relic of a home surrounded by the things she loved. My mind is fading. I am old. You are a baby. I can only hope you will remember me. Remember family. Remember the history that made us who we are.
These nutcrackers are part of our history.
Our ancestors were born in the Erzgebirge region of East Germany. Mining was the way of life. When the ore was depleted, the Wagners had to seek a new way to feed their families. So, our people went into woodcarving. Our homeland became famous for our Christmas traditions, namely, the nutcracker.
The letter abruptly ends.
“No!” I say out loud.
I grab the king from my robe pocket. There is no paper. I take the horseman from my other pocket.
“Yes!”
A worn piece of paper is halved and tucked under the tiny black leather strap that serves as the horse’s rein. I move the nutcracker’s hand holding the rein just enough to get the tweezers in to grab the paper. I open it, my heart racing. There is a number three in a circle at the top left of the paper.
“No!” I say. “Where’s two?”
I race to the nutcrackers I placed in a semicircle on the floor and begin grabbing one after another, searching their wooden bodies and accoutrements for any sign of paper.
Nothing.
I sit back and rock, just like the little horse sitting on my desk still is after my sudden departure. Returning to my desk, I pick up my wine, take a healthy sip and then grab the remaining letter number three.
“I might be missing a puzzle piece, but I still have you.”
I know my random scroll of memories, or these nutcrackers, may never reach you...
I stop.
Scroll!
I grab the nutcracker king and gently pop off the top of the scroll he is holding.
“You are a crafty woman,” I say to the king.
Inside is a piece of paper, rolled just like a scroll. I extract it with my tweezers and unroll it. It is a much bigger piece of paper, a slightly longer letter. A number two sits at the top.
Today, the nutcracker is probably the most famous legacy of Erzgebirge (besides you, my angel!). Its figures of kings, soldiers and gendarmes represented society of the time. According to German legend, nutcrackers are considered a symbol of good luck and bring protection to a family and its home. And, according to folklore, a puppet-maker created a doll with a mouth for a lever to crack nuts and won a nut-cracking contest.
These nutcrackers not only saved the place where our family started, but they saved me, too. When I was little, they were my protectors, my friends. When I grew up, I would set them on my mantel during the holidays. I not only felt protected and safe, I felt like I was home. I felt like my family surrounded me.
I knew Christmas was finally here.
If you receive these, my legacy will be fulfilled. I doubt you will, though. Maybe I’m just using this as a way to write my final memories, or play a game with my family to see if I really mattered. I will never know. Only you will. I doubt it. My kids were never one for embracing tradition. They want new. History could be thrown out like the bathwater.
Letter two ends, and I grab the third, starting where I’d left off:
I know my random scroll of memories, or these nutcrackers, may never reach you, and I know if you do receive my collection, you’ll wonder what this has to do with you. But one day you will be my age, and you will reflect on your life. Will those around you even see you as human any longer, or just “old”? How we view people—and things—that have aged and survived defines us as souls and societies. Do they mean something? Or do we just toss them aside?
I can feel my heart rise into my throat.
I hope these end up in your hands. You continue our lineage. But that doesn’t mean our family history survives. It requires effort. You have your whole life ahead. May these nutcrackers fill you with memories and bring you good luck. I love you, my angel Gabriel. And I will be with you forever through these nutcrackers, even if I’m not there. Merry Christmas. Gigi (Great Grandma Ingrid)
I pick up the rocking horse and hold it close to me.
And then I bow my head and weep.