Candles and a Music Box, by Lynn Thomas
[Editor’s Note: In February 2021, Lynn’s story was in a writing contest sponsored by Leading Age.]
Santa Claus may have been mentioned in my home growing up, but I honestly can’t remember. What was real were candles lit on the tree Christmas morning, ones held in tiny silver holders clipped to the tree limbs. And the music box that held the tree, balanced with cornucopia ornaments holding fruits, enough so that the tree would turn full circles and not fall over. This was quite the feat to get it just so. Dad was the official to oversee chosen fruits for the delicate maneuvering. And once, through many trial and errors, the tree would turn without stopping, we kids got to test the candles by lighting the ones on the bottom limbs.
When Christmas morning arrived it was magical. My brother and I sat on the top step excitedly waiting while Mom and Dad lit logs in the fireplace as well as all tiny candles on the tree. Then, the tinkling music box started playing “Oh Tananbaum” and we knew we could go downstairs to the living room where the tree, reflected in a bay window of three panes, lit the entire downstairs, or so it seemed.
Many memories of childhood elude me, but not Christmas morning. Sadly, I hold very few memories of baby Jesus. My family wasn’t religious or a church going family, though in my adolescence an Episcopal church was built nearby which I soon joined as a teen member interested in the youth club and junior choir. My brother, staunch and stern, later became a lay reader which was perfect for him. He was already a bit pious which eventually made him a perfect candidate for Alcohol Anonymous and sponsor for so many suffering from alcoholism. Dad, however, wouldn’t touch the Episcopal Church. “Nobody is going to see me genuflecting on the carpet! I’ll go back to the Presbyterian Church,” which, of course he and Mom did.
Today, probably close to 120 years since the music box was made in Germany, it now lives with my oldest daughter, her husband and two kids. It’s slightly bent, broken and wobbly on its feet, but candles still get hung on the artificial tree which rests inside a cup designed to hold it. The last time I visited their home at Christmas the music box was able to play two of the four carols. I don’t know whether it was the tree or the music box that felt a little bit like the tale of the Velveteen Rabbit, discarded and thrown out and no longer of use, but I sensed an end to an era, one where many of us grow away from held customs to make our own traditions. What never leaves, however, are memories. Like candles of hope, thankfully, we can light those anytime.