Paperwork: Boxing up Christmas this year also packed powerful punch

It was time to put Christmas away. And it wasn’t easy.

The process usually is pretty smooth. I line up the seven labeled boxes to be refilled with lights, ornaments, candles, stuffed figures and more. The boxes are smaller and store nicely on the garage shelves.

I wander and collect what was scattered but carefully situated to spread holiday cheer. (The floppy, stuffed reindeer always oversees the living room from his perch on top of the china hutch.)

The tree is the center of attention. We buy it off a local lot and anchor it in the living room. I water it each day with a bit of guilt and a whisper of thanks for being part of our Christmas. After a few days it’s clear it no longer needs water. So more guilt.

The lights are untangled, tested and circle the tree. Then the rest becomes a bit ceremonial. The box full of ornaments is a treasure chest of memories. Many are homemade, showing dates and names of the three boys.

With Christmas music bouncing around the room I hang ornaments around the tree. Many tell a story that brings a smile. I’m thinking the three boys should be here doing this ... remembering. When it’s done, lights aglow, it looks good. Feels good.

Taking the tree down is different. Just a process. Ornaments are pulled off, dropped back into the box, as the holiday is slowly packed up. Until next year.

Until next year. That thought sounded a tiny alarm. Will I be here next year to pull these ornaments out for another Christmas?

I had to accept a simple truth. I am not a puppy anymore and this old dog doesn’t know what next year will bring.

I know. Yes, this is true for everyone at any age. But as you get older you lean more into the inevitable. Standing there by the Christmas tree I knew someday I would be putting away these memories for the last time. Perhaps this would be the last time.

Thinking this I look at what’s in my hand. I’m holding a paper ornament in the shape of a hand. It’s the outline of my oldest son’s left hand. It seems tiny in the palm of my hand.

I picture him with his pencil, tracing around his little fingers and then cutting it out. (Maybe he had help with the cutting part.) He drew it on the inside of a Christmas card that had the image of a decorated Christmas tree. A fuzzy white string was attached for hanging. On the back was his name and the date 1974. He was 4 years old.

His hand now in my hand. I’m choking on emotions and yelling a little at myself.

“Don’t cry old man. Stop it. This is life. Nothing is forever. And it’s not time yet.”

I had to sit down. To be honest, I started writing down the details. I knew I’d have to write about that moment, that ornament, to see where it takes me.

The decorations now are packed in a box labeled “tree ornaments.” Perhaps I should add the word “precious,” as are the memories of three boys tearing open presents from Santa.

And so here I am, finding comfort in knowing that box will be around – even if I am not.

And inside, on top of the pile, is a Christmas tree in the shape of the hand of a 4-year-old boy.

Lonny Cain, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. His PaperWork email is lonnyjcain@gmail.com. Or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.