Our extended family celebrated Christmas this past weekend. Though the holiday will go down as historic for a number of reasons, including the ice storm that kept us together an extra day, the crowdedness of this gathering will always be its defining feature.
The crowdedness included: twelve people, their overnight bags, and enough groceries to feed five thousand; presents for the gift exchange, the white elephant exchange, and the ex-monk shower; three dogs, complete with doggy beds, food, and treats; and scrapbooking and art paraphernalia for the family craft day. But if the family stuff had been limited to the above list, we would have been comfortably crowded, nothing more.
But this Christmas coincided with Mom’s decision to break up housekeeping. So in addition to the normal holiday flotsam and jetsam, Mom contributed boxes and boxes of heirlooms she’d sorted and designated for kids and grandkids. Add to that the invitation for her five grandchildren (aged 16-27) and three children and spouses (ages ambiguous) to go through cupboards and closets to take what they wanted, which resulted in many more boxes of her household goodies in every nook and cranny of our house.
My nephew left Saturday morning with his car stuffed to the gills. Yesterday my brother, his wife, their two daughters, and Mom left with a pickup truck and an SUV crammed so full of Christmas treasures, they looked like the Beverly Hillbillies. Then my sister and her husband drove off, so loaded down there wasn’t even room for an extra carafe of coffee.
Our house was down to four people, but towers of boxes filled the bedrooms. The rest of my week will be devoted to making room for all we received this Christmas. The piles for the landfill and Good Will are growing and the towers of boxes are shrinking. With each item I take from the boxes, I see the dearest memories of my mother’s long life now entrusted to my family’s care.
Emotions crowd my heart, and I breathe deep. I can do this for her, I think. And so I will.
