By Melanie Nelson

Each year, I look forward to decorating the house for Christmas. We’ve lived here long enough for me to know just where I want to place the department store Nutcracker and the wooden nativity scene. Knowing where everything will go makes decorating a snap, even when my son wants to join in. The task doesn’t really take too much longer when I let him help, and it’s fun to have a decorating companion. Unfortunately, the cleanup after Christmas is neither easy nor fun. 

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Before I became a military service member, I was a military brat, and we moved often, usually over the summer. But regardless of where we wound up, in early December, my mother would begin pulling her Christmas decorations out of large storage totes, kept in the garage, the basement, or the attic—depending on the house. She’d put a few decorations out each day while we were at school until the house was crowded with ceramic angels, velvet Santas, and quilted wall hangings. A weekend or two before Christmas, we would choose a tree and decorate it with dozens of ornaments. Many were handmade by far-away relatives and sent to us over the years to let us know we weren’t forgotten, even if we hadn’t been able to visit in a long time. 

I’d play it cool for the first couple of days after the tree was up, but I’d keep an eye out for a moment when no one was around so that I could sneak through the house and visit all the decorations. They were my friends— tiny, fragile, and precious. Friends with whom I had a reunion each year—something I didn’t have with the friends I’d left behind in each move. I held private conversations with the snowmen, mice, and gingerbread cookies, greeting them and basking in the glow of their familiarity. No matter where we lived, no matter what the house looked like, no matter how numb I felt as I made the adjustment to a new state, a new house, and a new school, the Christmas ornaments warmed me.

When Christmas was over, Mom insisted on removing the tree hooks from each ornament to prevent them from getting tangled, scratching each other, or rusting on each other when they were packed away. She did the packing herself, taking care with every keepsake, not just the china-head angel but also the salt dough and paper creations we brought home from school. She didn’t know for sure if we would be moving later in the year, but she’d be ready for it if we did. Thanks to her careful planning and packing, with every move, the ornaments always arrived unscathed at our next house. 

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When I became a naval officer, my parents were stationed in Okinawa, Japan. Living on my own, I visited thrift shops and craft fairs and bought a tiny tabletop tree and a handful of ornaments. My favorite was a cerulean glass ball, hand-painted with a lighthouse covered in snow. Coming home from work after long, miserable days to a lonely apartment with my parents several hours ahead of me on the clock, I turned on the tree lights and How I Met Your Mother and felt better. It wasn’t quite the same as my childhood tree, but it helped.

A year later, my dad and brother were deployed, but my mom and sister joined me at a vacation rental in Florida for Christmas. I had moved out of my apartment in preparation for an upcoming deployment, and I had put the decorations I’d purchased the year before in storage. My mother and I decided to buy a fresh tree to decorate the vacation rental. We visited the beach gift shops nearby for new tree ornaments, unsure how to celebrate Christmas without the decorations.  

The following year, Mom visited me a few weeks after Christmas, when I was preparing to move to a new duty station. I’d packed and taped the box with my ornaments myself, but when my shipment of furniture and boxes arrived at the new house, it was nowhere to be found. I chalked it up to the government’s contracted movers, who aren’t exactly known for taking tender care of people’s household goods, but I was embarrassed by the sense of loss I felt—what a small, silly thing to be sad about in the grand scheme of things. 

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When I ended my time with the military, I got married, bought a house, and had a child. My Christmas tree now showcases ornaments from my husband’s childhood and mine, plus a few from when we were first married and our son’s first Christmas. 

I hang each ornament, even the plastic ones, even the cheesy or ugly ones, with a deep reverence. I answer my son’s questions about how the ornaments came to join our collection, and get lost in a time warp, thinking, this one is from that state, or this one is from that friend, or this one is from the lonely years.

Several years ago, my mom called from Okinawa to tell me she’d discovered a box of Christmas ornaments she didn’t recognize; she was wondering if they were mine. I remembered, suddenly, that at the end of her holiday visits, she would ship a box of clothing and small items back to herself in Okinawa to lighten her luggage on the return trip. Somehow, her packing must have gotten mixed up with mine the time my ornaments went missing.  

I did a pretty good job of packing those ornaments; the only one broken in the overseas journey was the glass ball with the snowy lighthouse. Mom shipped the rest back to me and when they arrived, I thought about getting rid of them. Why, when I had all my childhood ornaments, would I want to keep those cheap craft fair purchases? Why would I want a reminder of that sad little Charlie Brown tree, or of spending Christmas all alone? In the end, though, I kept them, and they still go on the tree every year. 

I can see that the decorations aren’t as big a deal for my son as they are for me. He enjoys the novelty of seeing the house decorated for the season, but he isn’t heartbroken to see the ornaments being put away in January. He has lived in the same house his whole life, so he doesn’t require the ritual and reunion with these trinkets to bring him back to himself. At least, he hasn’t needed that kind of reminder so far. 

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Our house is close enough to the Atlantic Ocean that we can hear waves crashing when the wind is right. Most of the time, I find this charming, but not during hurricane season. From June to November, I lull myself to sleep with the inventory of what I would pack for a hurricane evacuation. 

The list changes from year to year as my son grows older and as I reevaluate what matters, what makes this house our home. Christmas comes just a few weeks after the end of hurricane season, which means that when it’s time to clean up after Christmas, I agonize over which ornaments are really my favorites. Which ones would I want to have in a new place if our house were to be devastated by floodwaters or a fallen tree? I pack that year’s chosen few in a small box and tuck it into a linen closet, easier to access than the attic should we need to evacuate next summer or fall. Even after a few years of this practice, it’s hard to tell how many of these treasured ornaments would be enough. 

I’m hoping to safely pack enough ornaments to open the portal to all the places where I’ve been loved. Even when I was by myself and aching for my family, the tree reminded me that Christmas means we are loved, always and everywhere. That’s why I kept the ornaments from the lonely years, and that’s why I pack a special set of ornaments to carry away with us if need be. Someday, I may use those decorations to help my son understand that no matter where we are, no matter what we’ve lost and what we’re longing for, Christmas always comes.

Guest essay written by Melanie Nelson. Melanie supports military-affiliated students at the University of North Carolina Wilmington and teaches information literacy. She and her husband have a kid, a dog, and a cat, any one of whom may request a back scratch, sprawl across a board game and displace the tokens, or “disappear” a piece from a jigsaw puzzle at any moment. You can hear her voice on her office podcast, Veteran Friendly.