December 9, 2014: When I was sixteen, I was flipping burgers at “Campbell’s Drive Inn”, a little, family-owned fast-food joint in Silver Lake. Worked there for six years or so. Grew up there, really. Thirty-five years ago or so this Christmas, we had a white elephant gift exchange, and my name was drawn by a young girl named Dawn. She gave me several Christmas tree ornaments, and with it, she gave me the gift of a story. She loved a tree that spun a tale. She told me that her dream was to have a giant Christmas tree that didn’t hold shiny balls or tinsel. It would be filled with homemade ornaments … trinkets. Ratty old things. It would have history. I liked the gift, but it wasn’t … profound. But she spoke with such passion! Those were self-absorbed, self-destructive times. In fact, I think I may have gotten my tree that year from the local Community College campus landscaping committee. (Sorry, ECC faculty … I was a bit of a delinquent.)
Within the year, though, Dawn was gone. Cancer. Before she turned twenty years old. While the white elephant gift may not have been profound at the moment she placed it in my hands, it has touched every Christmas since. I’ve put up her ornaments every year. They get a special box. They are carefully placed. Away from little hands and paws. They’ve traveled with me through marriages, births, divorce, deaths, pain and joy. School … new jobs. Travel. Watching my beautiful boy grow from a newborn child to a fine young man. Thirty-five years full of extremes. The ornaments tell that story … a paper mache ice cream cone from 1998 that has chipped away more every year. A broken ceramic that looked more like stained glass when glued together … or so I said. A one-eyed santa. A gingerbread man licked thin by Chopper, our beloved kitty that crossed the rainbow bridge nearly a decade ago. Innocence. Cynicism. Anger. Joy. All held tightly in the Christmas box.
Every year, after the decorations are up, I spend a couple of quiet hours looking at the tree, the lights … the story. Sometimes the tree is tall, sometimes Charlie Brown-like. And for the last couple of years, pre-lit and easy to install. Homemade ornaments. Trinkets. Ratty old things. History.
Here’s to you, Dawn. Your life? Devastatingly short. But I will never forget you. Thirty-five Christmases. And you are still in my heart. Merry Christmas … I hope you enjoy the tree.
