It was at the bottom of the box. Carefully folded. Tucked in among the packages that were wrapped in colorful reds and greens and patterns of snowmen and Santas. It was my childhood Christmas stocking.
It had been delivered to me in a brown cardboard box – shipped by my parents who had obviously uncovered it as they continue to downsize and dispose of and pass along a family's lifetime of accumulation. There, together with the packages of new surprises and unknown delights intended for opening this upcoming Christmas morning, was the unexpected, well-worn, red-and-white-cloth memory.
My hands reached for it first. I knew immediately what it was, of course, even before I turned it over and saw the familiar script-written "Martha" across the white band at the top. My heart filled with joy and sadness. Simultaneous, spontaneous, tears and smiles. Something caught in my throat.
This wasn't my first Christmas stocking. Somewhere, in an attic-stored trunk I know I could find that one. Colors faded. Fabric worn thin, even to nothingness in places. That original stocking had outlines of Santa in his sleigh and candy canes. It was long and thin and held my first blocks and a small cloth doll and, later, a set of jacks.
But not far into my life, my mother must have decided it would be fun for us all to have matching stockings to hang across the fireplace mantel. These stockings, however, were for decoration only, rather than filling with tiny treasures.
Each of these mantel stockings was made of red felt. Graduating in sizes – from Dad's largest to Mom's to my older sister's to mine as the smallest. A baby-size was added for my little sister after a nine-year spread in ages. Attached to the top of each stocking was a wide band of white felt. At the left edge, there was a cloth loop for hanging. And across the white top band was written in bright red ink, in plain script lettering, our first names.
To me, more than anticipated treats and seasonal secrets, these stockings represented our family. There we were, all together, a "set." Different sizes, different names. But we matched. We were complete. We belonged to each other. Hung across that Christmas mantelpiece every year was red-and-white-felt proof that we were a family.
I don't remember when the red felt stockings were first omitted from the rest of the decorations. I suppose they fell out of fashion after awhile. Or perhaps it was when we began to grow our own families. And we all moved away to different houses, different towns, different states.
As the only daughter without my own family, however, I continued to join the rest for Christmas in their homes. It is great fun to be visiting "Aunt Martha," who arrives in a flurry of snow and presents and leaves too soon. I have been blessed to have shared 60 Christmases with my family – wherever they have been. I have adored doing it, even though it has meant leaving my own home for the holidays for over 35 of those years. Driving, flying, snow storms, ice, in the middle of the night – "I'll be home for Christmas" no matter what.
This year, however, I have decided that I will be "home" for Christmas. It is time that I celebrated in my own home, with my own wonderful friends and loved ones right here in this hometown place that I love so much. And, when my stocking arrived in a package today, it was the perfect love- and wisdom-inspired gesture from my family.
So, to each of you, my Christmas wish this year is that you have your very own red-felt stocking, a mantel upon which to hang it, blessings and memories with which to fill it, and a family to love because of it.
Merry Christmas.