When I was little, Christmas started and ended at Mama's house. As soon as we got out of school we would pack up and head to her house in the country. We would have fires, sing carols, make food (tons of food) and of course, there was the tree.
My grandmother. Mama, has a thing about her tree. Mama always has a beautiful tree. When we were little we all begged to help her decorate and each Christmas we would hear about the mythology behind each ornament. All were special, and each had their specific places. Some were Baby's First Christmases from her three children, and 9 grandchildren. There were ugly, handmade, and treasured ornaments, there were expensive Martha Stewart-esque ornaments. We were all allowed to help carefully place these ornaments but mysteriously, all of the ornaments we clumped haphazardly were reset by "Christmas Elves" while we weren't looking. Over the years, we learned it was better to just watch the master trim the tree, rather than try to get involved. We still felt like we were helping, after all, we cut her job in half since she no longer had to redo our shoddy work.
When it was all said and done, Mama had transformed bits and pieces of our family's history (including a Baby's First Christmas from 1981 - though none of us were born in '81 - it was on sale) into a tree that could make the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. We all know our place now, on the couch, among the boxes upon boxes of decorations, safely drinking egg nog and listening to the stories, but we all know better now than to try and help decorate. Well, almost all of us...
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