Mum is doing her version of downsizing, going through bags and boxes and containers of all shapes and sizes, many of which have lived in the basement for 50+ years, and as expected, she's unearthing some junk but also some treasures. I'm realizing that if something went into our basement, it didn't come out, which should be a cautionary tale for me, peering into my own ever-expanding basement wasteland. Stuff, stuff and more stuff. So much for my "I'll spend 15 minutes a week down there sorting once I hit 60" mantra. Maybe next week.
Anyhoo, Mum has been sorting Christmas things recently, donating reams of old lights, wrapping paper, decorations, candles and icicles for the tree to her church's flea market. Amidst it all, she found some Christmas cards, and she is very good about giving me things that were addressed to me.
Like this cute card from my Great Aunt Evelyn, probably c. 1965, and the above tag in my grandmother's handwriting. It's amazing how distinctive handwriting is, and how with just a quick glance you can immediately identify the writing of a special person who hasn't written to you in decades. There was a whole lot more of letter writing and card sending when I was growing up. Mum has found so many cards - from aunts and uncles, Godmothers, friends. Everyone sent or dropped off cards for every holiday, birthday and anniversary, and sent postcards too. These paper ephemera can be so helpful in recreating a family's story, as I know from the letters from Vilna that Lena is translating for me. Sometimes I really think I should have gone into archival studies, but then I bet real archivists have to do a lot of boring administrative work, instead of having fun pouring over the goodies.
As usual, I digress. The point of this post is about one item Mum found in the basement, which really shows me how my life has changed since c. 1965.
A Christmas tag I opened this week shocked me, and I think I actually gasped. But now I'm just laughing at what a strange kid I was. Explanation: We had a dachshund when I was growing up. Her name was Shnitzel. Sometimes her full-meal deal name was "Shnitzel von Forshner," Dad having had German ancestors. We made a lot of jokes about the Red Baron and Snoopy, and I seem to have known that a swastika was associated with Germany. And the concept of "coming in second" (sports? piano competitions?) and not having actually "lost" the war, or the actual devastation of war, was on my mind as I wrote this Christmas tag to my dog. A strange child. (But then, I also asked my mother what age I would have to be before I could turn Black. It made perfect sense to me. I'm surprised Mum wasn't falling on the floor with laughter. She just smiled at her strange child.)
So as this holiday season approaches, I'm reflecting on the things we keep in our heads as children. A swastika means a very different thing to me now. As does a Mogen David, like the one Mum found in Dad's jewelry box, a piece of jewelry we hadn't known he possessed, even though he wasn't Jewish. So, is the point that symbols have different meanings at different points in our lives? Or just that I was a really strange kid?
Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah.