The thing about tradition, a reoccurring theme of life, or at least in my life, the thing I tend to long for, the thing that lodges a weight in the center of my heart, and makes me think nostalgically of the magic that exists in the twilight hours of December in upstate New York, where the burnt smoke smell from the old fisher woodstove heats the chicken corn chowder as “twenty of my parents closest friends” weave wreathes in their fireplace room. The fireplace room which was aptly named, long before I was born, a room inspired by the old colonial houses with giant hearths that held caldron-like pots. My Great Grandfather Swift Tarbell built the fireplace six foot by six foot and it would become a perfect place for my family to gather for “Greening”.
“I wish I had a new name to call it.” My mother stated solemnly as if the mere uttering of the word ‘Greening’ might bring the weight of the past four years back to sit smack dab in the center of her living room.
“It is good.” I said in reaction to the reinstatement of my favorite holiday, knowing it was against all of my mom’s sound judgment and her belief that pain should be buried as deep as you possibly can. As soon as the sentence left my mouth, I found myself fighting back the jealousy of knowing I would miss the event.
Easily my favorite, it was perhaps all of our favorite holiday, created in the seventies by three couples, who had two kids apiece. The Klumpps, Utters and Johnsons would annually head off to the woods, picking princess pine, an endangered club fern growing on the forest floor, putting it in burlap feed bags, taking them back to my parents’ house, where it would be spread over the floor and we all would spend a day making wreaths and garlands that would don our front doors, and decorate our staircases.
Being the baby of the two apiece clan, I preferred the years when it had snowed and the ground was covered with at least six inches of snow, the perfect amount to craft beautiful snowballs that Cole, in order to pave the way to the perfect childhood, had demonstrated the difference between powder (useless) and packing snow. My youngest child status had given me exemption from any kind of real work, though my mom would sometimes speak sternly at me issuing instructions on community and how the harder we all worked, the sooner we would all be back next to the fire, drinking hot chocolate and eating marshmallows.
For one day of the year, my parents’ living room would become a forest of greens with a giant fire burning the scraps. It was always something natural for them, no stress at the mess or the food prepared for the small army that they had invited to invade for the day. To them it was just a couple of friends, usually 23, coming to share a holiday activity, laughter and food. It wasn’t until later that I realized the greens spread on the floor alone would drive most families into a frenzied state of disarray that would last most of the holiday season. But for my parents it was a pleasure and though life has provided its times of frenzy, greens blanketing the floor have never caused it.
Once back from the woods, we all took our positions. My wreath making spot was unchanging, always on the large wooden bench placed right in front of the fireplace, where my back would burn, a rare occurrence in a house built in 1850 and heated with one single woodstove. My cheeks would become bright crimson and I would sweat but never leave. My sister usually sat in the navy armchair, Donna on the small wooden chair, her back straight. Bonnie on the loveseat, Jodi, nearby allowing me to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" ever year. The rest of the guests filled in depending on the food and drink being offered in the kitchen or the game going on in the living room. It takes two people to make a perfect wreath no one works alone, and you sit next to your partner. One person assembles, wrapping the wire with the greens around the frame; the other cuts and piles. Alan, a cutter for Bonnie, was also in charge of keeping an eye on the greens and would get additional bags from the porch when supplies ran low, dumping them in one huge pile on the floor. Donna an assembler had a style that was quick as she refused to eat anything until at least two of her wreaths were made and finished. A surprising fact, considering she always brought the most amazing homemade donuts, which none of us seemed to resist, eating at least seven each. Bonnie undoubtedly always threatened to buy plastic wreaths the following year from Wal-mart after she found herself still wrapping wire and greens long into the evening. My Mom and Dad sat quietly and were subtle about their wreath making, getting up to make sure the soup was stirred and the sandwiches were ready, sometimes even passing the biggest wreath for me to finish. Cole’s wreaths looked like nature incarnate, wild and unruly. He, absolutely believing the art was in the “haircut” and the ideology that you could snip your way to a perfect wreath. He had even converted Tim for a while, making him believe that maybe he should get a second job as a barber. Heather’s were uneven and had holes that provided plenty of places to stick bows and pine cones. My sister’s flat, lean, contemporary. She was the first to add non-red ribbons to Christmas. I, completely non-domestic in those days, ironically was extremely anal about my own technique, taking the art form utterly too seriously, and when asked today, honestly believe created the best wreath of the group. “Firing” cutters if they didn’t take enough care or remain consistent in the size and shapes of their piles. I, who had very little opinion on home decorating, had, after years of creating wreaths, become a complete lunatic in regards to Christmas.
Countless memories. Twenty plus years of them.
We grew up. The kids, who were taught to make wreaths at 5, grew up. Grew up to get married, grew up to have children and some even grew up and got divorced. The parents that created “Greening”, the ones who drank wine, rum and cokes, vodka tonics, and sometimes vodka straight effortlessly showed us what life was about and what we should expect out of love, have now become grandparents, become people that chose to love all of us, despite our fallibility and we have certainly proved to be fallible, each of us. But, life has happened, we have lived and the three families have not been exempt from their share of sorrow, some of it caused by our own doing.
When my Mom said, “We are going to have Greening this year.” over a conversation on Skype, adding, “I wish I could think of a new name for it though.” I saw her looking at the memories that stood there somehow staring back at her.
I won’t be there this year, in my parents’ fireplace room, on the long wooden bench, as wreaths are made. Neither will the Klumpps or countless others that have shared our hearth for one year or a decade. Twenty plus years of history is not easily forgotten and as the social studies teacher in me speaks, it shouldn’t be, but not because of the length of time, though twenty years does feel significant. The more I think of it, it is not the length of the time spent at all.
Instead, it must truly be about the Klumpp, Utter and Johnson clans coming together and creating a life that filled countless people with joy; taught people to laugh out loud and long for mealtimes. They were people who never claimed perfection, and as far as I know never even strived for it. Instead they taught all of us, lucky enough to be with them, that life is about the company you keep among friends and cherishing the people who will sit down, talk, drink and eat with you. Greening is different today, then it was, life has changed and thus “Greening” has with it and though, as I opened my mom’s email this morning, and found myself crying and wiping tears from my eyes desperately fighting the homesickness I felt. I was also grateful and extremely happy, happy that my nephews will know what it feels like and the lessons “Greening” holds. I suppose it is only my own selfishness that makes me want to be part of the community that gets to show them.
Excerpt from my Mom’s email:
“Ciao bella!
We miss you. Heather prepared her vegetable dish in your apt. using your dishes...always makes us feel closer to you!!!! No snow for Greening Day, but we had fun in the woods. Kids were adorable of course. Trevor DeJager came with Brent, so Cole had five boys packed with Justin in the back of his SUV. Too cute, they of course all wanted to go together, but it was a little crowded with Justin in his crate. The kids were sooooo cute. I'll send a picture of Spencer and Cooper climbing a tree.
Of course, the fire in the fireplace was a big draw. Susie had them help her "throw" stuff in that was leftover, so they were helpful and could still work near the fire. Cooper made the most beautiful wreath, unbelievable. Heather helped him decorate it with a bow and pine cones. Wow!!!! Trevor made one too. He asked me when they were leaving if we were going to do it next year and could he come. I said of course, he is so wonderful.
Kloden was so funny. What a cutie, you will not believe how much he has grown. He helped me by cutting the pieces of wire for me.
We are basically picked up pretty much. It was the usual mess, but who cares. Nice to see Cole and Mary and Abby. Mary had to leave early. She is off to a dental conference in NYC today.
Food was yummy as usual...soup and sandwiches. It all went well I think. Maureen and Norm Niggli came and had a good time.
The only thing missing was YOU!!!!! But, you will be home soon for gingerbread houses etc. We will save some wonderful Christmas happenings for then.”
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