Christy Angel, by Connie Gross
I am a reformed Christmaholic– my house used to spew Christmas in every possible space. But the past few years I started to ignore the closet stuffed full of Christmas stuff and simplified my style. This pandemic year, I finally took time to sort through the stash. That’s when I found her – my forgotten Christmas angel, tucked away in my aunt’s aged green suitcase that I had repurposed for an ornament box.
This angel (named Christy Angel by two of my nieces, in honor of Christy, the niece born just three days before Christmas) presided over our family celebrations since Mom created her in 1950, for the first of almost 70 Christmases together. Her dress, now slightly yellowed with age, was made from materials left over from the flower girls’ dresses worn at her wedding. Mini pearls from mom’s wedding outfit form her necklace and halo. The wings, made from cardboard covered in tissue feathers, spread out broadly from her back. She has been around to see my parents raise eight children, and has been visited by over 35 grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great great grandchildren.
When we were young, she watched as we grew exhausted from the eternal hopefulness and excitement of a child’s Christmas; the anticipation vibrating through us as we rushed through the seasonal rituals. The highlight was the Christmas tree, its fresh pine smell marking the countdown to the big day. Decorating it began with strings of glass bulbs followed by the ornaments, all too many of which fell from our clumsy, over-excited hands and shattered on the floor. Next came the gobs of silver tinsel tossed recklessly over the tree, as we tried unsuccessfully to make our tree look like the ones we saw in movies like “It’s A Wonderful Life” or “White Christmas.” Finally came the highlight– the tallest sibling available got to perch Christy Angel on the spindly top branch. There she sat, holding vigil for us all until Christmas finally arrived. When it did, she watched over us as we played with our new toys, fought over whose turn it was for the next game, or argued over who got the best presents Finally, tired by the all-night Christmas preparation marathon and the endless squabbling, Mom would have had enough of us and sent us to bed.
The next few days of Christy’s short reign were always a roller coaster for us, plagued by the let-down that comes after Christmas, exhausted by the excitement of the season– until finally it was time to pack Christmas away. Way too soon for us, she was stuffed back in the box for her unendurable hibernation, leaving us with only the endless hope for the perfect Christmas next year.
Over the years, Christy Angel watched our crowded house dwindle, then grow again, as the next generations replaced siblings who moved away. Eventually, Mom turned Christy Angel over to me, where she reigned over my feeble efforts at Christmas perfection. But soon, Christy Angel, like most artifacts from my past, was left tucked away and forgotten in a closet. She remains there, a symbol of a fading past, of the golden years of the seemingly idyllic family life– a time we look back on with the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, despite the imperfect reality. Every time I think of her, I feel a longing to recapture the feeling of Christmas that exists only in the perfection of my mind.
