December 2020

This year is different.  

Way, way different.

I just wasn’t sure how I wanted to handle Christmas and vacillated between nothing or all out. When I contemplated not having any decor, I felt deflated.  When I thought about facing the many giant tubs of Holiday Foof, I felt overwhelmed.

I knew that I needed brightness to cheer up the long stretch of oncoming cold and darkness.  So, I thought I’d plug in a few strands of lights and add garlands over my windows, get out some prelit trees, and a few other things near the tops of the tubs.  

Digging through decades of collected Christmas ornaments seemed to be asking for a crying jag. What could I come across that would break my heart? So, I decided that all I needed was some glitter and glow, not trees filled with handmade or lovingly collected vintage and family ornies.  

A silver tree that I pulled from the closet already had some decorations from last year stuck in its branches.  I left those and added a few glitter covered balls and other pieces that I typically considered “filler” not the main show.  Nothing sentimental, just sparkly.

Usually, I go ALL OUT, like my hero, Clark Griswald does with his million, tiny, twinkle lights.  I pack up every knick  knack and replace it with holiday glee.  This year, that was done on a minimal basis, I set up a few displays, but mostly just lights. And I was enjoying the process.  As my house got more twinkly, I felt more joyful myself.

Then, I found a bag of pinecones in the back of the storage closet behind the unused tubs of memories that I tried to protect myself from.  You never know when grief will strike you, and there is no amount of being careful that can avoid it.  

A year ago, on one of our trail walks, I saw the perfect pinecones to make gnomes out of.  We had Sugar with us, and were on a segment of our walk notorious for squirrels, so she was on full alert and ready to bolt at any time.  Ryan and I had our little jokes, and one of them was that certain stretches of our walks were “danger zones” where we had to be cautious with Sugar or we’d be surprised by her leaping after her prey and jerking the leash from our hands.  (I know, bad dog training on my part, not her fault).

 As we’d turn a corner and come across these spots, one of us would always say, “watch out, we are going into a danger zone”.  We thought it was an even funnier joke when we were walking poor, blind, old Twinkle who wouldn’t notice a squirrel if it sat on her head.

I wanted those pinecones, and we started grabbing them up as fast as we could and both stuffing them in our pockets, laughing hard, while joking that we had to hurry and get away from the danger zone.  It was silly, but it was fun.  That week, we gathered up a few more on other walks, laughing and filling our jacket pockets, rushing to get out of the squirrel infested area before Sugar took off.

Ryan and I had simple pleasures and repetitive conversations about little things.  There wasn’t a single time we walked by that area without commenting, and Ryan offering to grab a few more pinecones.  I said I had enough, we’d get more the next Christmas. 

I had no idea there would not be another Christmas for my son.

Finding that bag of pinecones about wrecked me.  After I recovered from sobbing over them, they made me smile.  And I started tucking them into branches of a couple trees.  I put Twinkle on her leash and we took a walk to that danger zone to fill a big bag with more, and brought those back to add to the holiday decor.  

When I see the simplicity of a pinecone in a sparkling tree, it reminds me of Ryan and what we shared.