The alarm blares at 8 on a Saturday morning. I turn off the dreams, roll out of bed, and pull on my long underwear. After adding two more layers, washing my face, and brushing my teeth, I head out the door with a cup of coffee in hand. Following MapQuest directions, I wind down country roads I’ve never before traveled, hoping I can find my way back home. Just as I begin to wonder whether I should turn around, I see the sign. Another mile, and I spy cars and trucks lining the roadsides. My pulse quickens, and the endorphins start to flow.
I scan the site, quickly sizing up the competition and surveying the wagons. When I spot a mound of boxes sprouting tinsel garlands and plastic wreaths, I salivate like a drunk anticipating the first drink of the day. I make my way through the crowd, jockeying for position at the wagon’s edge. Digging carefully through the first box, I hunt for treasure. My heart skips a beat as I silently scream, “Eureka!” Looking up at me from the bottom of the box are four little elves made of pinecones, pipe cleaners, and chenille. Gingerly I pick up a little fella holding an accordion, and I flash back 40 years. Mom and Dad had four of these little guys and five kids. Every year, as we decorated the Christmas tree, we fought over the pinecone elves. Of course we had oodles of ornaments to hang, but that wasn’t the point. The last kid to the elf box would find it empty and set to howling. Maybe I should give Mom and Dad a fifth elf this year, just in case a fourth and fifth grandchild come along. I put the little guy back with his buddies and gently cover them with their garland blanket.
In the next box, I spot the sign of a great vintage ceramic figurine, a plain old brown corrugated-cardboard box. As I open it and peer inside, my eyes light up. Nestled in straw is a set of wall pocket candleholders that spell out “NOEL.” In mint condition, they even still wear their Lefton stickers on the letter bottoms. In my mind’s eye I see Mom, surrounded by kids, sitting at the piano, playing Christmas carols. I hear six voices raucously belting out “Here Comes Santa Claus,” two of which may be on key. No one is self-conscious, though. The piano vibrates with the pounding of the keys, making the NOEL candleholders, which sit atop the piano, tremble. Every year I worry that a letter will tip over and break, and every year Mom wraps them up and returns them to their box, intact, on New Year’s Day. “Yes,” I murmur, “you are coming home with me.”
The last box is filled to the top with vintage ornaments: Shiny Brite baubles, fragile handpainted blown-glass ornaments from the 1940s and ’50s, housed in their original packaging; satin balls of primary colors perfect for aluminum trees; and miniature metal bells complete with clappers. At the sight of the bells, a vision of C.J. — a little yellow kitten who grew into a big tom with a mouse squeak of a meow — pops into my mind. The year we adopted C.J., we hung only the unbreakable metal bells from the lower branches. The hope was that the bells would satisfy his kitty desire to bat at the dangling ornaments and he would ignore the more delicate ones. What we did not anticipate were his climbing instincts. Shortly after the last candy cane was hooked on a limb, we heard a crash in the living room. A few of us reached the doorway just in time to see C.J. leap from the trunk and dash away. Dad had to match wits with the cat to keep the tree standing. He eventually resorted to screwing hooks into the crown molding, wrapping wires around the trunk, and anchoring the tree with the wires tied to the screws. It wasn’t pretty, but it kept the tree upright.
The auctioneer interrupts my reverie, announcing that the auction will begin in 10 minutes. It’s time to get my number. Standing in line, I shiver as the raw wind whips across the harvested cornfields. Number in hand, I head back to the Christmas boxes to assure myself that the contents are worth freezing for. One glance and I know I’m staying as long as it takes. I install myself next to the boxes and jealously guard my decorations. Auction amateurs carelessly paw through the boxes of fragile wares, and I cringe and scowl at the boorish nincompoops. One old cow digs in the box like a dog digging for a bone, and I lose control of my mouth. “Careful — there are some very fragile things in there,” I scold. She pauses mid-dig and peers up at me with an expression that clearly says, “And just who the hell are you?” I return her stare, and she finally pulls her grubby mitts from the box and moves on. The second she steps away, I check the contents for damage while cursing her under my breath. “No respect,” I mutter. “These people have no respect.” Of course, auctions aren’t known for their atmosphere of Christmas cheer. “No friends at an auction, folks,” my favorite auctioneer likes to say.
By the time my boxes are up for bid, my nose and toes are numb and a chill that only a hot bath will dispel has settled in my bones. The bidding opens on box No. 1, and my heart leaps into my throat. As usual, the auctioneer starts the bid at $10, and I have to force myself to wait until he comes down. When he gets to $2, my arm shoots into the air. He acknowledges my bid and asks for $3. A woman across the wagon nods her head. “Damn it, I’ve got competition,” I think. Sizing her up, I decide that she’s not serious. I put on my I-will-not-be-outbid face, see her bid, and raise her $1. She drops out of the bidding, and the treasures officially become mine. I buy all of the Christmas decorations on the wagon, pay my bill, and haul the boxes to the truck. Exhausted and frozen, yet elated, I head for home with my booty.
This holiday season, just like the retailers, I went straight from Halloween to Christmas. I want to enjoy my vintage treasures for more than just a few weeks. The aluminum Christmas tree stands in a corner of the living room, and at night the color wheel and spinning tree stand hum a tranquilizing duet. Every available inch of surface space hosts a Santa, pixie, or angel, smiling or singing a song. Plastic garlands of holly, bells, and poinsettia are draped over doorways and windows, and of course a sprig of mistletoe hangs in the foyer. The effect is an aura of innocence, sweetness, and magic that transports me back to my childhood.
For the last two months of this year, whenever I feel world-weariness coming on, I can just look around the room and travel back to the time when I believed that anything was possible and my world was safe.
Alice Armstrong, a freelance writer and
copy editor, taught English for 18 years at Glenwood High School in Chatham.
This article appears in Dec 14-20, 2006.
