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HEIRLOOM ORNAMENTS
...small holiday tokens....
If we are lucky as adults, we have ornaments
from our childhood to pass on to our children.
If we are extra lucky, we have at least one
ornament from our parents’ childhood to covet
as our own. It is in these small holiday tokens
that live legacies of love and triumph.
My grandmother loved color. Pink and teal
particularly. Style gurus of 1950’s homemakers
had nothing on her. She raised my mother in
a Cape Cod style house my Grandfather built
high on a hill overlooking the Shetucket River
in Eastern Connecticut. Her kitchen was done
in teal tile, she served simple meals on bright
Fiesta dishes, and baked the finest éclairs
in New England. A silver tinsel tree was her
signature Christmas centerpiece and upon
it were hung the sweetest pink ornaments
Woolworths offered. Mingled in were blown
glass ornaments my Great Grandparents
brought with them from Czechoslovakia. And
in my Grandmother’s driveway a mammoth
1955 turquoise Buick was the envy of the
neighborhood. She would have to learn to
drive it after my Grandfather’s sudden death
when my Mom was only ten. Though years of
transitioning from a homemaking queen to a
single parent would bring difficulty, financial
strife and resilience, that silver tree was finely
decorated every Christmas as a testament to
my Grandmother’s, and my Mother’s, strength
to thrive.
Every December, I unwrap an ornament that
once hung on my Grandmother’s tree. I have
only one. I hold it to the sun as the light
shines through the mercury glass and shadows
tiny hand-painted blue flowers. I snuck it away
from my Mother’s collection one Christmas
when I was home from college. These were
the precious bulbs stored in a tattered box
with edges secured so many times the box
was pretty much tape and dust. Inside, the
vintage ornaments looked like creamy curved
marzipan treats peeking through time-thinned
tissue paper. My Grandmother had passed
away when I was a high school sophomore,
before I had a chance to appreciate the lessons
she often shared. This ornament is feather
light, delicate, ornate in its simplicity.
Just like my Grandmother. Four feet ten
inches and maybe 90 pounds after a hearty
meal. My Grandmother went to work in the
Ponemah velvet mills after my Grandfather
died. She never complained. Never cried where
anyone could see. Never gave the impression
that a woman needed a man for anything.
Always preached love. Always practiced
determination. Always shone with bright color
when most other women would have faded to
black.
Over the years I have collected vintage
ornaments to simulate my Grandmother’s
collection, to hold dear the memories my
Mother guards with old boxes in cedar chests.
To share in the silent strengths that hang in
the remains of love snuffed out too early.
Pink ornaments now cover my own silver
tinsel tree. And as my daughter joins me in
decorating, I share stories of my Grandmother,
my Mother, and the Grandfather I never knew
in hopes their legacies will fuel generations yet
to come. Merry Christmas!
STORY: JACQUIE WHEELER | PHOTOGRAPH: LESLIE ADAMS