‘Twas a week before Christmas and all the preparations were done. Well, almost.
The Nativity creche Pat received as a child is in place on the fireplace mantle. It is always the first decoration to go up and the last to go back into storage.
The icicle lights are in place along the roofline — and still working. The wreath is on the door, tree up, presents wrapped and Christmas music on the hi-fi.
Yet something is missing: the Christmas cards. Have you written and mailed yours yet?
We are behind on sending out ours this year. Usually they’re addressed by the end of November, the letter written, revised, copied and folded, and are in the mail by now. Not this year.
We ordered the cards early enough, I bought the stamps and fussed at the clerk about the price. I engaged in an old tradition of asking why they always had stamps depicting the Madonna, but never Lady Gaga. The clerk rolled his eyes; the others in line laughed.
Yet the cards still sit on the far end of the dining room table, along with a little recipe box full of names, addresses and when we last sent or received a card from someone.
When I collect the mail this year, there are fewer cards, leaving me to wonder if they are becoming things of the past.
It was not always that way. When we were growing up, Mother would buy nice, more expensive cards for some recipients, mid-range for most, then a quick stop at Woolworths to buy cheap cards for my sister and me to send. Mother spent hours addressing envelopes, writing a short note in each card and signing them on behalf of our family.
Father took a practical and jaundiced view of this tradition. “We see these people all the time, so why do we need to send them cards?” he’d ask. “Do you realize stamps cost a penny more — four cents! — this year?” He would have his say, then drop the subject and let Mother get on with her fun.
Mind you, he had his fun when he carefully looked at every incoming envelope to see if the stamp had been cancelled. If the Post Office missed one, it was a small bonus. He would carefully cut it off, soak it in water to loosen the stamp from the paper and then use it a second time. He wasn’t being cheap, just thrifty.
For many years I continued the tradition in my own anarchistic way. When I was in junior high school I sometimes stopped by the Ma Bell office to look at the bookcase full of telephone directories. I’d pick out a couple names and addresses from faraway cities and then send them cards, adding something like, “Hope to hear from you – it’s been a long time.” That is optimism and implied guilt, all in one sentence.
I smiled, knowing they would get the card, look at it and the return address, then spend a fascinating evening trying to figure out who I was and how we knew each other.
I only sent them to people from the upper Midwest, because they were invariably polite. Before the Christmas tree came down, we would receive a card from them. In turn, Father would see the card, suddenly being polite overcome thrift and he’d reluctantly say we should send them — whoever “they” were — one in retiurns.
This went on for a couple years until the time at the church circle Christmas lunch when Grace Bonestien, the operator, ratted on me. She told Mother about my little enterprise, which Mother found amusing.
Her best friend overheard and chimed in her daughter was doing the same thing. I was accused by both mothers for being the instigator. Well, of course I was.
Throughout the holidays we delighted in getting cards from our friends. The fronts were always a beautiful picture that tried to capture the essence of the holidays.
Every night after dinner we would open the envelopes, Father would check to make sure the stamp was cancelled, read the card and name of the sender, then pass Mother the envelope so she could make sure her card file was up to date. She would put an “x” in the received column and check to make sure the sent column also had an “x.”
Each day’s collection was added to a wooden sleigh that our great uncle Fred had made years earlier.
Best of all were cards The Olds called “Merry Medico Missives.” Those letters were organ recitals of various body parts that were not working as they should, surgeries, treatments and more.
One year, a mother told the tale of her child’s flatulence, which was notable for its volume. The next year she gave a detailed saga of her hemorrhoidectomy. Both contained too much information.
Christmas cards a small part of our holiday tradition, but taken together with all the other small parts, it became meaningful and important.
When Pat and I began sending our cards a quarter century ago, we probably mailed off more than 100. This year, we will be lucky if we reach 40. Many of the people we knew are no longer with us. Others have quit sending cards, and probably don’t care one way or another if they receive one. Still others now send electronic greeting cards.
A Post Office clerk confirmed there are far fewer Christmas cards sent each year. I mentioned maybe it had to do with the cost of stamps, now hovering just north of 70 cents each.
She agreed, adding that because people were sending fewer cards the Post Office was not making enough money, so they have to keep raising the cost of stamps.
Somehow, that doesn’t seem logical much less right, but then it is the government.
Pat and I will maintain this old tradition. We will send our cards to stay in touch, to let people know that we are thinking of them, and to be kind.
To all of you, have a joyous and Merry Christmas!
