Norman Rockwell painted a picture of my family. It’s true! It was a Christmas painting, and we were all positioned around the tree draping Aunt Judy’s garland and Uncle Bud’s lights. Of course ol’ Norm was dead before he painted it, but it’s ok, the colors are still vivid 70s Americana: life was all Happy Days and problems were all Dust in the Wind. I’ll forgive Norm if his style was rigored, decaying, and dated. That’s how I remember my youth.
The cute little kid to the one side of the tree? That’s not me. I’m the one next to him—shoving him out of the picture. I have no idea who he is or why he’s frozen, smiling in his Dallas Cowboy PJs, but he wasn’t here originally, and neither was the little Coca Cola bottle he’s hanging from the tree. Blond kid, horn rims? Yeah, that’s me. I’m six. This is my first Christmas after my dad remarried. The young woman, that’s my step-mom. Everybody wave “Hi.” She’s older now, but still looks pretty much the same. She’s a little grayer, but enough time with Rob will do that to anyone. Ask MyEx.
That leaves Dad. Yeah, he’s the one standing back, with his arms crossed. Norm’s painted him with a pipe, but dad hasn’t smoked a pipe in years. As for the standing back, I’m not sure if we’ve overpowered him and bum-rushed the tree, or he’s surveying it for optimal placement for the hooked thing dangling from his index finger. That look on his face never gave away too much. It’s obvious he’s thinking though.
That was our first Christmas—us as a family. The 4-foot plastic tree on the tiny table, Mom and Dad bought that at K-Mart, because that’s what they could afford. Maybe that’s why the other kid is there: product placement paid for our tree. It wasn’t the prettiest tree, but you know what, I still have that tree. Last year, for my first Christmas alone, I put up that same tree. They just don’t build plastic junk like they used to. Then again, I did get plastic things under the tree that year. Those things didn’t hold together quite as well. Maybe the art isn’t in the materials; it’s in what they represents.
A tree, that’s real, it’s solid. A six million dollar man? Once you’ve broken a limb off, you can’t rebuild him; you don’t have the technology.
My tree still works. And that past visage of six-year-old Robby was it’s first erection. What? Oh, pervs! Fine, Assembly—better? I can’t even get by without a Christmas snicker.
When you look at the tree, you’ll notice that there are also some special Robby ornaments. Those are the plastic ones. See how they look like they’re already broken? That’s how you can tell they’re mine. Actually they aren’t broken, they’re hollowed out. See? If they dangle-spin so that you can see the front, you see a little manger scene built inset into the plastic half-shell.
I wasn’t allowed to touch the glass ornaments. I came with a reputation, and that reputation’s broken glass proceeded me. Even Norman wouldn’t paint me next to anything fragile, fearing I’d fracture the pristine image. No, the glass bulbs are painted high on the tree. That’s what Dad’s probably surveying: Robby arm reach vs. bulb height/proximity. Mom’s dancing around dangling high hooks in the upper boughs. All that dancing is silly; look in front of me: 8 manger scenes installed here without moving.
By Christmas, 8 mangers migrated to 8 open rooms in the tree. And an angel at the top lit their way.
“Come, they told me…”
That move was a feat of Christmas magic I never understood until the year mom told me the truth:
“So, reindeer don’t really fly? What about the ornaments on the tree?”
“Oh, I do that.”
“And the cookie jar of M&M cookies, and the briefcase of small unmarked bills?”
“Oh, that’s uhm…Santa.”
Other secrets were revealed over the years, but I don’t think I ever owned a glass ornament until I married MyEx. See, I rarely put up the tree on my own. When I think of Christmas spirit, I either remember the Rockwell childhood or Goya years with MyEx. That makes this season a little bittersweet, because the tapestry is just so rich. No matter how dead the art is, it still hangs in my head, and it always will.
Oh, I’ve done this before. I know all the things to do, so that I don’t get drawn into the Christmas duldrums per-se. But, even this year, the Thursday before Christmas is like a broken ornament.
See, every year MyEx took off the week of Christmas. It was her birthday, and the holiday. It was her time of year. Usually the last Thursday before Christmas was my last chance to wrap and hide presents before either magical day, because Friday, she’d be home.
It was my day to paint Christmas, if you will. I loved wrapping the presents, maneuvering them into place under the tree, hiding the stocking stuffers in a easy access, yet remote island location. I loved challenging myself each year to make it better than the last. Most of all I loved spending the week with MyEx.
Last year I mourned this. This year, I’m in a new place. I miss it but I’m looking forward to the beauty of a new Christmas present. I’m at a crux between my past Marley and the Wailers of my future. It’s my now, but I don’t know how to see it without seeing through the eyes of the old Christmas masters.
Christmas is that favorite ornament you hang on the tree every year that reflects every good thing about the holidays. Now, Christmas has a crack, what do you do? It’s still beautiful, but it’s still broken too. To hang it could ruin it, but to let it sit in the box is a waste. You can’t glue it because that just reminds you that it’s broken. There’s no glue that works the same as new.
This Christmas I’m taking the ornament for what it is: a work of art. It’s worn, but it’s also the art of history. I’m stepping into the new, remembering the old and cherishing it for what it was, and part of that is a Thursday sadness.
This Christmas I’m doing something new too, though. Moving forward is about painting new portraits. It’s drawing new people into your life and making lasting connections.
One tradition MyEx and I had was to buy a new ornament every year. Maybe that was small. Maybe at Christmas we should all try to draw new people into our lives, and hang them from our tree. Maybe it’s somebody personal to hold close, or maybe it’s just a new Carol you can sing with and rejoice the holiday.
Giving of ourselves is the ultimate gift. I’m not pretending to be so noble in my visit with Grunge Pixie. I’m just a broken ornament that she chose to display on her tree. I’m just happy to be part of her holiday picture.
Paint me with a big smile and a broken red globe sitting in my palm. My other hand is waving a merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
No comments:
Post a Comment