The creche

I recently inherited the creche of my childhood. I remembered vividly the figures and designs. It was the memories that I hadn't prepared myself for.

Unwittingly, I am the family historian. My memory stretches back to little-known facts that had deep impressions upon me, and I can recall deeply buried occurrences with the speed of light. Some are good and need to be recalled while others (according to my brother) need to be banished as in "For gosh sakes, Diane. That happened over forty years ago!" I can see his point. I guess that every family has that one with the long memory that they'd like to put in a closet somewhere, and I admit that I wouldn't want to hear about one of my foibles long gone (like "the car," for gosh sake) but, we do have a purpose. We are walking encyclopedias of family events, long-forgotten names and have intimate knowledge of the stories attached to our communal heritage. In other words, we do have our 'up' sides.

Through the death of both my mother and father, I have recently inherited many items from their home. My sister, brother and I had gone through much of the contents, agreeing upon who would take what. Unlike many families that I've seen, the three of us were amicable about our decisions often stating that it would only be the right thing that a certain 'child' should acquire certain pieces. We did our best to bring a true fairness 'to the table' and I believe that we came through it the best that we could with our choices during an emotionally charged situation. It was our sincere hope in our planning that our parents would be looking down and giving approval to our actions. I do believe that when all was said and done they were proud.

It was my wish to accrue much of the furniture that they'd owned, from a table that once graced the front window of my childhood home to my parents' and grandparents' dining room sets. I had wanted to keep these sets together so that they could be passed onto ensuing generations feeling that I'm merely the steward of them rather than an owner. I emptied much of my house to make way for these heirlooms to arrive and had already chosen indicated spaces for their placement.

My brother had phoned me with specific instructions regarding the delivery of these household items and I felt fully ready for their arrival. As I saw the moving truck pull up to the front of my house I was watched in excitement for its unloading. Furniture appeared, from padded cloths, that I had waxed and polished thoroughly on the Saturday mornings of my childhood along with large and small boxes with contents labeled on the sides of them. It took fully three hours to unload and place everything where I had planned with numerous packing cartons being placed in both the garage and lanai. As I stood and surveyed the sea of cardboard before me I now stood dumbfounded by the task that I had taken upon myself. Since I had already had wave of brilliance in my divestment of personal furnishings as mentioned, the furniture proved not to be a problem. It was neatly placed and set up in designated spots that had been arranged for them and fit well within the confines of my home. The brown, corrugated containers were what took on a sinister persona.

After an appropriate admonishment to myself of "Alright, idiot. Now what are you going to do?", I had no idea that I would be setting myself up for a journey through time with all the pain and sweetness that comes with those paths that we've walked before. I took one box, read its generic contents and sliced through the packing tape to survey the cargo. Within the confines I had unearthed lifetimes that shook me to my very core. Undoing bubble wrap I found figurines that had once graced my grandparents' home upon the breakfront buffet that I now had in a corner. As I dug further, vases that had once stood upon the top of my parents' hutch came into view. These I carefully placed in my dining room where their hutch stood, affixing them in their accustomed places where they had once stood.

Crystal and china was placed into my grandparent's cabinet where they had already been before along other assorted glass and porcelain. Each time I unlatched the door of the old cabinet the aroma of my grandparent's house would hit me squarely. I would find myself once more being a small child navigating the steep service stairs that would lead down into the kitchen or exploring their attic for long lost treasures stored upon the wooden planking of the floor. I could taste the candy from 'Faroh's' that was only available during the holidays and saw my sister, brother and myself climbing down into the basement to the fruit cellar where cases of soda were stacked only for the use of grandchildren.

These memories had tremendous power and I found myself spinning and stopped the unpacking. I was becoming emotionally drained and my brain seemed to be overloaded with scenes and emotions playing out that seemed as it were yesterday, even though I was now a Grandmother. With my work halted temporarily, I walked outside.

After having surveyed my numerous flowers, replaced seed in the bird feeder and redistributed my solar lamps I felt as if I finally could go for 'round two.' I had no idea that this outside foray had been destined to prepare me for what was to come that would move my earth and strip me bare.

Opening another box, I again found it filled with numerous pieces that were covered in more bubble wrap and nestled between newspaper. Now feeling as if I was becoming accomplished with this unpacking of treasures and renewed from my break taken outdoors, I removed these packages for casual opening. It was not until I had placed these items to the side that I saw a familiar box from days gone by that made me freeze. Within it held my earliest memories. As I reached to bring the worn box from its resting place in the carton I could feel my heart pounding and detected a weakening in my legs. I reverently set the box down upon the carpet. With a deep breath I gingerly undid the top to see ancient cotton batting and shredded newspaper from the 1950s. I lifted the cotton and there I saw the crèche figurines of my babyhood through young adulthood. They were as pristine as the day that they had been bought at the Dime store during the Christmas season almost a half century ago. The plaster sculptures still held an 'Italy' stamp upon their felt bottoms along with a round, blue stamp denoting a price on each (no larger than forty nine cents). I could suddenly feel my mother next to me at Woolworths picking through the tiny statues to see which one's had been most finely painted in their detail. I felt myself on my tiptoes attempting to spy sheep and shepherds along with cows and camels that were spread upon a sectioned counter. A soda fountain could be seen to the right of where we were standing. I also saw my mother's face as if it were in a picture frame, the deep red of her lipstick offsetting the fairness of her skin. It was a rendering of a young adult woman. As she raised each piece methodically for a closer look, I felt the pressure of her hand tightly on mine, being aware that a 'stranger' might come and take me away. That had always been a recurring tale that I would be told before entering any store. As soon as that vision passed, more collided together.

I was laying on the floor and seeing these figures in a stable that my father had made and placed beneath the Christmas tree. They were bathed in a golden light of a single bulb that Dad had placed high upon the back wall to showcase the manger scene and it appeared to glow. I could remember how I reverently put the Baby Jesus in the stable for my first time on a Christmas Eve and envisioned the icicles outside of the windows in varying colors from the Christmas lights attached to the house. A fire would be in the fireplace and Christmas carols played softly on the stereo. Bubble lights gave the tree an illusion of movement as I spied my brother's Lionel train circling its base, and the silver icicles picked up the multiple colors of the lighted strings wrapped upon it's branches. With all of that festive splendor, it was the crèche that had always held my attention. It was a peaceful and serene staging as it recreated an old tale passed down from centuries even holding angels with wings of gold. All of those visions and intense memories were to be found in that old box.

I once again covered the figures delicately with the worn batting and carefully placed the top back on the now fragile box. I thought of my granddaughters and what they would think about the story of the first Christmas. Even better, I would like to show it to them.