Christmas was always the best time of year while I was growing up. I was the youngest of five, four of us leaving the Buffalo, NY area to enter the military. The sacrifices of service left us scattered around the world through most of our lives. All of us at my parents at the same time only twice since the mid-1960’s after my sister, the eldest, graduated school. Once in July 1995 when my transfer crossed pass with visits from my siblings and then when we all gathered for my father’s funeral.

In the aftermath of my father’s passing it came to me to go through the large collection of Christmas things he’d collected. Much of it was newer stuff he had added for decorating the house. My parent’s house was bought new in 1950 in a typical cookie-box suburban neighborhood of the post war years. It was his pride & joy and having the skills, remodeling it was his favorite hobby. Decorating for Christmas one of the highlights of the year. Even when I was very small, I think I’d sensed just how much my dad loved that time of year. Better than any other.

Among the tangles of light cords, boxes, and bags was one special basket. I think knowing it was there was why I’d taken on the task of sorting all this out. When I say basket, I mean an old wooden fruit basket. I wonder how many people at Pan even remember such things? You didn’t see them anymore even when I was a kid. This one had no dates on it. But my best guess is it was made sometime in the 1930’s. Likely was a treasure in those hard days my parents grew up in.

I remember the first time I came across the fruit basket. I was maybe ten or eleven. Old enough to be trusted for such things and still small enough to easily fit. For my dad had built these narrow, tight storage eaves into the second story of the house while building the bedrooms for us kids. One area was the storage for all the Christmas items and that year I’d been “volunteered” to crawl in among the itchy insulation, dust, cold, and spiders to retrieve the ornaments, lights, and the prized Lionel train boxes. That year the collection of buildings would be set up along with the train itself. So I was digging deep into the boxes to find all I could. Way in the back I found the fruit basket and just had to pull it out. No one complained, not wanting to replace me inside the eaves, so the basket was taken out and moved downstairs without complaint.

Now putting up the tree was a big deal. We’d made the treck out to the country on a previous weekend to push through the snow to select a tree to cut. Remember, this is famous for its snow Buffalo. While I was big enough to crawl under the eaves, I wasn’t considered big enough to set up the tree, lights, or train yet. More likely there were enough bigger kids who wanted to do that themselves. So I was free to poke around into the boxes and such. Waiting until it was time to start hanging ornaments.

Of course what I got into was the magic of that strange wooden fruit basket. Figuring out how to twist the wooden top to release it I found it stuffed full of small bits of paper and cloth. Even then I could tell it was all really old. Confirmed when some of the paper was crumbling as soon as I started picking bits out. Unwrapping things I found this was to my eyes a treasure trove of ornaments I’d never seen before! I began picking through the choices. Not that impressed with the dull, chipped, and plain glass ornaments. But then I found the first of the birds. I didn’t understand then, but these are various birds made of real feathers carefully crafted into tree ornaments. When it came time to hang ornaments, they were the first things I put on the tree.

Once finished with the birds, and likely hoping to find more, I started hanging everything I found in the basket. Even the ornaments I didn’t like. It was just as I’d turned from hanging a long glass bulb wreathed in ugly looking fine wire mesh (I’ve never know what that mesh was meant to hold) that my mother spotted what I was into. She was horrified, as most of what I’d hung stood in such contrast to all the new shiny baubles, bulbs, and lights. Or maybe at seeing what I’d gotten into.

But once my father saw what the problem was, he was firm that they would stay. It may be the distance of time and loss, but to my mind when we finished that year. With the train setup under the tree and all the old ornaments in among the new I still think that was the happiest I ever saw my father. From that Christmas on, every year that old fruit basket with its trove of ancient faded ornaments came out from under the eaves to hang on our tree.

Eventually I left the safety of home and the warmth of the old fruit basket behind. Traveled the world and met my own wife who also was in the Air Force. Found our own ways to celebrate Christmas. All too often making due separately in some faraway lands. We still refer to Valentines Day as Alt-Christmas after several times that day was the first we’d get back together to celebrate, including our first after getting married. We’ve collected many beautiful things, bought in the countries we’ve been too. Including many Christmas ornaments, especially from Germany.

So it was as I sat and carefully opened that old fruit basket one last time that experienced had changed my expectations. Yes, the ornaments that came from under the crumbling paper and worn scraps of cloth were still beautiful to me. But now I better recognized what I held. All of the items easily predated me. I’m sure many were even older than my parents. To find one or two broken was heartbreaking. But I went on with my task. Starting a record of each item. Placing each in new wrappings and into new hard plastic storage racks to give them the protection they deserve. I spent a long time looking at that ugly old bulb with the thin wire mesh that sometime long ago held . . . what? I couldn’t figure out what. Even knowing now what I do of old things from other places I couldn’t make a guess of when and where this ornament had been made.

Everything was saved and carefully repackaged. The careful inventory entered into a spreadsheet and printed copies made. The old fruit basket and the new storage containers all went to the UPS store. Well padded, damn the expense, they were all sent on to my sister. It is only right. I have no children and will not have any while she does. The legacy of my father’s family ornaments should be passed on to my nephews. I only hope that one day their children will understand what they see on the tree among the shiny, pretty baubles, bells, and lights.

Robert of Kashmir