Shiny and Bright

Both of my grandmothers died the year I was ten. Within 6 months of each other. At 34, the memories are harder to remember. My maternal grandmother, Grandma Mantel, spent winters with us, and I knew her better. She was part of my every day life for months at a time. When she died, I chose to take some small figurines that were on display in the room we always slept in when visiting her in Chicago. Those figurines still find special places in my house, even though they are broken, and chipped, and never quite go with anything. They are a solid link to a memory. My paternal grandmother, Grandma Rupright, was less of a physical presence in our lives. She lived in Indiana, and we lived in Georgia. We visited each summer for a week. I remember snippets of our visits and of her. Being coated in bubble slime on the front drive, ice cream in gallon buckets in the garage freezer, playing with my cousin, walking down the gravel driveway. Holiday packages filled with "nuts and bolts" and divinity. I know she loved us with every fiber of her being, but she was not keen on travel and so our visits were few and far between. When she died, she donated her body to science and there was only a memorial service when her remains were returned almost a year later. I didn't choose anything from her home to remember her by. I have several dishes and beautiful tea set that my mother passed along to me, but nothing that I had a memory of.
About a week ago, my Aunt Jane called me out of the blue. She said she had some of Grandma's Christmas tree ornaments that she has held on to all these years. She asked if I would like to have some of them. Before I could tell her yes, tears were streaming down my cheeks. Not because I remembered the ornaments (we never spent Christmas at their house), or because I had always wanted them (I didn't have a Christmas tree until My Favoritest), but because they were hers. They were a link to a woman who is fading from my memories. They were a link for my father to his childhood. They were something that could be passed to my daughters should they have tress of their own some day. I was thrilled at the thought of them hanging on our tree.
Today I arrived home to a package on the front step. When I saw the return address on the box, I couldn't wait to open the box. Carefully wrapped in styrofoam peanuts, bubble wrap, and more styrofoam, were eight delicate, scratched, colorful, priceless ornaments. And as I held them each up and looked at them, I couldn't help but imagine a Christmas tree in my granparents livingroom and the bright beauties being hung lovingly by my Grandma Rupright. I hope that if she is looking down on me, she knows that a piece of her holiday tradition has found its way into my home.

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