May 8, 2020
When I was little-little, back in the late 60’s, my mother used to make Christmas ornaments – beautiful, silken, be-jeweled spheres. Beneath the bed, she kept a long cardboard box in which the ornamental elements were stored: Styrofoam balls of different sizes, covered in layers of soft filament; old medicine bottles full of colored beads, sequins and faux pearls; cardboard roles of ribbons and wraps; and boxes of short pins with which to attach all of these shiny delights.
With an incredibly creative and discerning eye, my mother crafted stunning designs. She had a gift for understanding color and pattern. At the time, I just knew that they were beautiful; however, it wasn’t until my 30’s and Mom was already gone that I developed an appreciation for her talent. It should have been explored further. We should have discussed and celebrated it. We should have talked the origin of ideas, and the impulse to create.
Instead, as a youngster, I envied my mother’s ability to fashion something so lovely, and I attempted to make something similar – which were bright gaudy failures — amusing now, but not so much then. I could not understand why my efforts did not result in something just as fine.
Sometime in the early 70’s, Mom stopped making the ornaments, but the under-bed box of “condiments” survived and was kept.
When Dad remarried in 2000, he packed up the basement from Mill Neck Road and moved it all back to CA – into a new basement. Before he left, he divided up Mom’s ornaments, saving the best for his own tree.
In the group he gave me was one survivor of the ornaments I attempted as a child, before I knew I was southern, before I went to W&M and found my tribe, before I understood that Virginia was my “foreign country” of origin.
On one side of the ornament was a simple, isosceles Christmas tree of faceted green beads, pinned carefully and symmetrically in place. One the opposite side was a bountiful, deciduous tree in the fulsome green of high summer, with heavy arching (and no doubt fruitful) branches curving upward. Somehow, at the earliest opportunity, I had made a connection to trees (which continues to this day), to the south, to my Mom’s family heritage, to Mom herself, when I knew without knowing to whom I belonged.
How I wish we had had more time to talk – and not just on family stories – but also the creative impetus to make and build things, which was widely accepted as existing through Dad, but not Mom.
I don’t know why Mom stopped making ornaments. She progressed through a series of other personal interests, like collecting elaborate, sterling silver pickle jars and exquisitely-sharp cut glass bowls, but not where her hand was the master. She did take up knitting and made many throws for family and friends over the last 15 years of her life. Ultimately, however, her home became the beneficiary and canvas of her design talent, whether it was in the choice of furnishings, textiles, lighting, rugs, paint or wallpaper. The enduring quality environment she created with Dad continued to comfort, please, entertain and give us our identity for many years after she was gone.
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