Yet Another Phase of Goodbye

For many years, I’ve collected Santas. I have some made of wood, cast iron, tin, plastic, resin - even felt-wrapped Styrofoam. They're tall, short, and in-between; the kind that sit on a table or hang on a tree, or balance precariously on a stand. Some ride in cars, trains, and sleighs, or sit on the moon; one even rides a sheep.

Several hold an evergreen tree in one arm, and a staff, a child, a deer, a bag of toys, or even snowshoes in the other, to ensure they can get to children in the snowiest parts of the world.  They wear red, of course, but also plaid, and robes of green, white, blue, or brown; some have sparkly accents or fully sparkly outfits.

My collection has grown in the years My Sweet Baboo and I have been together; I don’t think a single Christmas has passed without him gifting me another Santa. Others were gifts from my mom, from friends, or received as holiday party favors.

Every year, but never before December 1^st, they come up from the Christmas Room in the basement, or from the hall closet, where the cast iron ones spend the off-season. I open the totes and the boxes, sometimes with a plan, but more often haphazardly, freeing the Santas from their wrappings of old newspaper, nearly airless bubble-wrap, and tissue paper at least a decade past when it last saw better days.

Slowly, randomly, I'd start placing them in the foyer - on the sideboard, or the bookcase, or the table where the family pictures usually sit, or the table by the door. I’ve followed that process here for nineteen Christmases. And then came this year: the first Christmas without my mother, who passed in March. 

She loved my collection and looked forward to seeing how they were displayed each year. And she had her own collection, too.  Some of them I suspect came from kids she had in class during her nearly thirty years of teaching. She saved everything they gave her, just as she saved everything my brothers and I gave her over the years. Her collection was augmented by My Sweet Baboo - he gifted her a Santa each Christmas for the last 15 years or so, too.

Earlier this month, after I brought my Santas out of storage and prepared to put them on display, I struggled to stay motivated. I'd work for a while, walk away, and then give up. For the first time, it felt like a chore rather than a favorite holiday tradition. I knew why, of course – there were other Santas out there, in a closet half an hour away.

I hadn’t been out to the house - Mom's house still, even though I officially own it - in weeks. Honestly, I can't remember when or why I was there last. Too much emotion, too much stress, too much to do, too much… everything. I had planned on going, a couple of times, and planned on getting the Santas, a couple of times, but those ‘couple of times’ never worked out. And here I was, in December, needing to make the trip, needing to 'make Christmas'. 

Out we went. While I sorted through some of Mom's things, making 'keep' and 'toss' decisions on books and placemats and random artifacts of her life, My Sweet Baboo rescued the Santas from the closet under the stairs. When I had had enough, had done enough for one trip, we loaded them up, along with Dad’s old schoolmaster’s desk (a gift from Mom) and a small Christmas tree, and brought them all home.

The next day, I stood in the foyer, surrounded by Santas. They were all over the place, wherever I had unceremoniously left them, looking ridiculously forlorn and forgotten. A tote and four shoeboxes of my Santas sat on the floor, unpacked. A tote and a bag or two of Mom's were nearby.

I took a deep cleansing breath: a full, slow inhale, then a full, slow exhale, and then I took another, inviting in the emotions I knew would come as soon as I started unboxing her collection, and then forcing them out, refusing to let them overwhelm me.

It took two or three hours to arrange them all, blending hers with mine, placing them just so amid the strings of lights I put out to help show them off. For the first time, the collection spilled up onto the picture shelves on the wall, down onto the floor, and over to the corner bookcase. I needed to recruit a plant stand from the porch, too, which would have made Mom smile.

The whole thing - seeing her Santas seamlessly integrated with mine, miraculously no two exactly alike - would have made her smile. And finally, I was able to smile, too.