But in 1975, my three roommates and I decided we needed to trim a tree and we each contributed a few ornaments to a fake tabletop tree, which we proudly displayed in the front window. I don’t remember what it looked like, and no picture exists to remind me, but I do remember telling my parents, in a rare long-distance phone call (because they were expensive!), what we had done. 

That Christmas was a slim year for gifts because my father’s union (International Association of Machinists and Aerospace Workers) had been on strike for several months. I have no idea what gifts I received, probably all thoughtful, hard-earned and appreciated. 

But no gifts were more meaningful to me than two handmade ornaments. They weren’t wrapped and were treated almost as an afterthought: “Oh, and here’s something for your tree next year.” The mane on the horse my father made stands up due to “hair gel,“ the Elmer’s Glue which, as a woodworker, he used by the gallon. Even more primitive is my mother’s soldier, made of a clothespin and matchsticks; I love his crooked magic marker smile. 

Each year I unwrap them, hoping the glue has held another year. Each time I unwrap them, I think of my parents, children of The Great Depression, and the skills they learned early in their lives of making something from nothing. This time I unwrap them and think of nearly 50 years of trees they’ve graced and how very, very blessed I have been.