I sit in the dust on the floor of my parents’ attic. Thirty years of collected Christmas ornaments, garlands, figurines, and other knickknacks my parents have stuffed up here throughout their marriage lie around me. As I decide which ones to bring downstairs to decorate this year, I run my hands over the surface of each ornament.
This is my favorite part of this time of year, looking through all the ornaments my parents bought or were given for each milestone over the course of their marriage. Starting with some ornaments given to them by a friend when they were engaged, which read simply First Christmas Engaged followed by First Christmas Married with the respective years. Ornaments for the birth of my brothers and me, our first teeth losses, and our first real home as a family. There are ornament cars that represent each of our first cars, and ornaments to represent each of our graduations, and everything in between and after.
Every family has their traditions. Mine is to come back to my parents’ home in Jackson for Thanksgiving. Even though I’m grown and have my own home to decorate, I would prefer to come home and help decorate the house I grew up in.
This is the home my mom decorated every year growing up. It’s the house my father would come home from work to everyday and kiss my mom on the cheek. He would ask about her day, knowing that a day dealing with us kids was more than a full-time job. It’s the house I had my first broken arm and broken heart in.
Every year, I come back for Thanksgiving and stay for the weekend, helping my parents sort through all the decorations. We decide which ones we’ll display this year. Which items should go where, and, are we going to use the nativity this year or the Santa and reindeer set? Are we going to have a live tree or pull down the massive Costco pre-lit tree my mom got on sale one year? These are the traditions I love and will treasure forever.
My life has been full of predictable turns. I grew up with parents who stayed married. Had brothers that gave me a hard time, but nothing more than you’d expect from brothers. But, I haven’t really lived. Sure, I went to college. Yeah, I graduated and moved into a place of my own in Laramie. Even got a job to support myself. But, I haven’t traveled anywhere. I haven’t truly seen anything. I’ve been on this planet for twenty-four years and have spent most of that time within a six-hour radius.
As I look around the attic that extends for most of my parents’ house, I remember Christmases that have come before. I remember the fights over who gets to hang mom’s favorite ornament or the tree topper. Fights over who gets to set up the Christmas countdown, or who gets the first taste of the pumpkin roll mom makes every year. These are the memories I come back for every year.
My brothers are both married with kids. They now help their wives set up their homes for Christmas, where they also collect a new ornament each year. I continue to come back here, reveling in the time alone with my parents, the time I know will be gone way too soon.
This is the first year I’ve done this by myself. Mom sprained her ankle, so I’m up here alone sorting through the Christmas stuff while she sits at the bottom of the ladder. She’s occasionally asking and answering my questions about which decorations we want to bring down.
I’m just about done here. Taking one last glance around to make sure there isn’t another box I’ve missed, I notice a large, dusty chest tucked away behind all the Christmas decorations. I move some boxes out of the way so I can open it. When I brush some of the dust off, I notice how well made the chest is, inscribed on the top are the words The Forgotten Ones. I try to open it and realize it’s locked, which means most likely there aren’t any Christmas decorations in here. I carefully brush the rest of the dust away with my hand amid much sneezing and coughing. The chest is made of wood, and as I run my hand across its surface, it is smooth, worn that way by time.
“Are you okay up there?” my mom yells up at me.
“Yeah… I’m fine… I’ll be down in a minute,” I say as clearly as I can amid the coughing and sneezing from the dust cloud surrounding me. I decide I’ll ask my mom about it after getting the boxes down from the attic by myself.
It takes me several trips and much struggling before I’m able to get all the supplies and decorations down. Mom helps me as much as she can on her bum ankle and we start opening the boxes and sorting everything in the order we’ll need them to put up the decorations. There’s nothing better than organized chaos.
This year, we thankfully decided on a live tree, so I didn’t have to haul down the giant fake tree by myself. Dad’s at work while “us girls do our thing” here at the house. I secretly believe he always schedules himself the day after Thanksgiving to make sure he doesn’t have to help with all the decorating.
“How about we take a break and get some hot cocoa? You can catch me up on what’s been going on with you lately,” my mom asks as she gets up from her spot on the floor. She hobbles into the kitchen to get the cocoa ready. Though, I’m not sure what she thinks might be going on with me. It’s always the same: work, home, hanging out with Huxlee, my boss and best friend. The occasional trip back to my parents’ house is about as exciting as it gets for me.
“Sure, Mom, sounds great,” This is another tradition I come home for, homemade hot cocoa. We always drink out of the same Christmas mugs we got as a Santa gift one year. They are matching, of course, so we each have one to drink the delicious, warm, creamy chocolate drink from. I get up and follow her into the kitchen, dusting off my ass as much as I can while walking.
My phone dings when I’m almost to the kitchen and I pull it out as soon as I walk through the doorway. I grin when I see the most recent text in my “Besties Group Chat.”
Huxlee
Me
Jen
Me
I set my phone down and look up as Mom pulls out various canisters and pans. She hobbles around their large kitchen on her boot. She’s made the cocoa so many times, she eyeballs the recipe before putting it onto the stove to warm for us. I don’t even think my mom has a package of instant cocoa in this house.
“Hey, Mom, what’s that large box up in the attic?” Why I decided to refer to it as a box, I’m not sure.
She looks at me and smiles as she stirs the cocoa on the stove. “What box, honey? You’re going to have to be more specific. We’ve been storing boxes up there as long as we’ve lived here,” she replies with a chuckle.
“The one that was behind all the Christmas stuff, yay big, says ‘The Forgotten Ones’ on the top of it.” She brings her gaze to mine, a frown marring her brow. “I thought maybe it had more Christmas stuff in it, but it’s locked.”
“Oh, that box,” she answers flippantly, quickly gazing back down at what she’s doing. “No, there are no Christmas things in there. Don’t worry about it. The things in there are private and for my eyes only.”
Clearly, my mother was never a child, or at least never a curious child. Saying anything to keep your kid out of something, even one who’s 24 years old now, is essentially a dare. Now I will stop at nothing to see what my mother might be hiding in the fancy, dusty, hidden chest. I will just apparently do it behind her back now. With her sprained ankle, it’s not like she can follow me around the entire time I’m here. I will stop at nothing to get that chest opened before I leave on Sunday night.
As soon as she’s done mixing and warming the cocoa, she pours us each a cup. Then I grab the container of homemade cookies that sits on the counter, and we move to the table. That’s one thing I can always depend on the weekend after Thanksgiving. There will be all the leftover baked goods from the big Thanksgiving affair my parents always host.
Once we’re both sitting, she continues, “I’m sorry you have to do all the decorating by yourself this year, Callie.” Then she motions to me and conspiratorially whispers, “Next year, I’ll do my best not to have an accident that takes me out for the holidays.” She finishes with a laugh. I grab a napkin from the holder in the center of the table and pull out two cookies to set on it.
“It’s okay, I know you didn’t do it intentionally. I can’t imagine you hurting yourself on purpose.” I smile and take a sip of my cocoa, the warm chocolate lighting up my tastebuds. “We’ll get this done, even if you’re just decorating the lower branches on the tree and handing me ornaments out of the box.” Picking up a cookie, I dip it in the cocoa and take a bite.
“Callie, you know you’re supposed to dip those in milk, right?”
“But have you ever tried it?” I plunge the cookie into my cocoa again, accidentally dipping too far. When I pull the cookie out, I stuff the rest in my mouth and lick the hot cocoa off my fingers.
Mom grabs her own cookie and daintily dips it into her cup. After she takes a bite, a smile crosses her face. “Wherever do you pick up these things, Callie girl?”
“Eh, thought it might taste good, so I tried it just now. Turns out, I was right.” We burst into giggles and continue to chat, eating more cookies and sipping our drinks.