The Jingle Bell

When it was new it was a gleaming bright bell made of tin but polished in a gold tint with a red ribbon looped at the crown. Instead of a clapper, dangling from the bottom was a small glittering plastic ring that when pulled made a clicking noise drawing out a string until it reached the end of its slack. As soon as it was released the music began.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” my brothers and I sang along.

Concealed behind a slice of gold painted cardboard that fit snuggly into the rim was a tiny mechanical music box that would play several rounds of the holiday carol before the string was drawn completely inside leaving only the ring to be tugged again and again by gleeful children. For years the bell was the most anticipated ornament of the holiday season in our household. We adored it at first for the song inside, the excitement it generated and ultimately the memories it would hold.

My earliest memory of the bell was as it hung from a hook in the center of the archway molding between the living room and dining room of our Philadelphia home. I was too tiny to reach the ring even after moving a dining room chair underneath so I would beg my daddy to lift me up so I could hear it chime.

Half a century later the bell has seen better days. It is covered with scratches and dents. The red ribbon is tattered and stained. The glittering loop is long gone replaced with a metal “S” hook that serves to keep the string from being completely drawn inside where the tired old music box still hides.

These days when the string is pulled the notes tick out so slowly it sounds like a requiem for the dying bell struggling to be relevant till its last note.

Anyone else would easily toss this hideous bell in the trash without a second thought. For years I have tried to dispose of it in some responsible way that didn't offend our family legacy. Once I put it in a box of retired ornaments to go to Goodwill after the holiday. Not sure how it happened but the following December it mysteriously appeared among the holiday decorations as if it migrated out of the trash on its own. Another year I gifted it to a brother who chuckled over the fond memories but never took it home.

This year I packed the bell in a box, wrapped it with my best holiday flare and brought it to a neighborhood Yankee swap where we were encouraged to gift a “useful” household item we no longer needed or wanted.

Finally a perfect, guiltless way to be rid of the relic!

But no sooner was it chosen did my heart sink in my chest. My neighbor fished it out of the box and examined the banged up bell with the dangling S hook wondering what on earth it could be useful for while it’s meaning to me was suddenly clear.

As it struggled to chime out the melody for the amused but confused gathering of onlookers my father lifted me up to reach the bell in all its glory. Cradled in daddy's arms I could feel him hugging me, lifting me cheek to cheek I could smell Old Spice on his neck, and hear him whisper, “does daddy’s little girl need to reach that bell? There you go, you pull that string.”

It took only a few seconds for my daughter-in-law to emerge a true hero of the evening. 

“I’ll take it,” she said without hesitation swapping a perfectly good gift.

And so the bell is back where it belongs, in the heart of a family that knows the true meaning of the holiday is not about things shiny and new, but making memories to hold dear for a lifetime.

Merry holidays to all.

Oh Christmas Tree . . .

It was our first Christmas in the new Mashpee house on Route 28 and I was 12-years-old. Up till then each year my father would take us to buy a fresh cut tree at a vacant lot from a sketchy holiday hawker. Dad always made a big deal of shopping for the tree. A seeming authority asking the hawker about specific varieties like the Scotch pine, blue spruce, or balsam fir, examining the potential of each one, holding it out at arms length, turning it about like a model on a runway. Then he would ask us, “what do you think of this one?” We would check for bare spots then pick the one with the best shape and fullness and dad would strike a deal with the hawker.

Not so in 1972 when we moved to Mashpee where my dad was convinced we could forage for just about anything. In many cases he was right. Quahogs from Punkhorn Point, deer from Camp Edwards, herring from Mashpee River – but Christmas trees?!

Before we moved to the Cape we could always tell when we were getting close to Mashpee when we recognized the scrub pines on the roadside defined by delicate branches, long soft pine needles, and crooked and stunted growth. Not exactly tannenbaum material.

My older brother Steve and I were skeptical and my mom expressed herself with the same kind of “oh Russell,” she sighed when he bought a sports car that would only accommodate one of his four kids at a time. (My father’s logic often escaped my mother but the Triumph Spitfire turned out to be a true stroke of genius enabling him to get quality time with us individually. And for us kids, even a trip to the dump in the “navigator’s seat” became a much sought after privilege.)

“Humph!” my dad issued a taunt to the doubters as he handled his axe and he and young Russ, who we called Rusty back in the day, trudged off into the Mashpee River woodlands in search of the family’s holiday tree.

A short time later they returned dragging a stout scrub pine behind them. From the warmth of the dining room my mother, brothers Steve and little Robert and I observed through the sliding glass doors as dad and Rusty propped the tree up on the deck. Gripping the top dad tried to twirl it like the ones the holiday hawker sold. Spindly at the tip, wide at the bottom and bare in the midsection, the tree managed a half turn, bowed and stalled at my brother’s knees. Rusty was grinning with pride.

Steve looked sadly at the tree and shook his head, “How pathetic…”

But the pitiful tree would not be denied. As my father stoked a fire in the hearth, we decorated it gingerly draping lights and hanging ornaments the tree could barely sustain to try to achieve the holiday flair of Christmases past. My mother actually cut some branches from a tree in the yard and attached them with duct tape to fill an obvious gap. Even Steve got into the act artfully distributing the contents of a box of tinsel he claimed would hide a myriad of sins, not to mention duct tape. Finally, wrapped in tissue at the bottom of a cardboard box storing our decorations I found the star that had topped our holiday tree as long as I could remember.

“You put that on there and the whole thing is coming down,” Steve said.

He was right. We put the risky star on the mantle, plugged in the lights and stepped back to admire our work. It was no fraser fir, but the scrub pine with its delicate branches, its pungent evergreen scent, wispy needles, and duct tape experienced a metamorphosis not unlike Cinderella on her way to the ball. And so I guess, did we.

Adapting our expectations, employing vision and creativity and an appreciation for a gift from the creator, the pitiful scrub pine became a thing of beauty and a cherished family memory.

May all of you be delighted by the unexpected and experience a memorable holiday season filled with the love and joy of family and friends. Merry Christmas and happy New Year.

* Republished from December 2011