Appalachian Christmas Memories Part Four

Precious Memory Ornaments

Shared by Debra

The first Christmas without them felt wrong in ways I didn’t know how to name. Everything was the same, but nothing felt settled. When it came time to decorate the tree, we slowed down without saying why. Granny reached into the ornament box and carefully set three aside, one for each of them.

Papaw’s ornament always made us smile. His brothers had made it years before as a joke, a tiny outhouse decorated with a Christmas wreath, complete with a little seat inside. What started out as teasing had somehow turned into something cherished. Papaw loved it, and so did we.

Aunt Lucy’s ornament was different. She loved crocheting and had made many over the years, but her favorite was the one she kept for herself, a crocheted treasure chest with a small wooden bead lock and beautiful poinsettias stitched across the top. It took her hours to make, and you could tell.

Granny’s ornament was a blue plaster heart, smooth and shiny, with a small hole near the top threaded with a loop of red yarn. Written across it in careful letters were the words, “Merry Christmas, love Mary.” It had been made years earlier by her oldest girl in school, a simple craft at the time that became priceless later on. When Mary passed away at just twelve years old, that heart took on a meaning no one could ever explain fully.

We held it longer than the others before hanging it, knowing it carried both love and loss. That blue heart stayed close to the front of the tree, right where Granny always wanted it, a quiet reminder that love doesn’t leave, even when people do.

Those ornaments stayed on the tree longer than the rest that year. It was our way of saying Granny, Aunt Lucy, and Papaw still belonged, even if we couldn’t see them anymore.

Christmas Eve at the Cemetery

Shared by The Parker Family

Christmas Eve found us gathered at the cemetery, like we always did when everyone was finally back home. It started with just Mamaw and Papaw, a wreath laid carefully on each grave, but over the years the count grew. One by one, more wreaths were added, until there were seven resting there by the time we stood together that night.

We didn’t go in silence. Hymns were sung, soft at first and then stronger as voices joined in. Memories were shared, some through tears, some through smiles and laughter as stories came back easier than expected. Our faith carried us through it. We still grieved, that never fully leaves, but we rejoiced too.

We believed our kinfolk weren’t gone at all, just celebrating Christmas in a place we’d reach someday. When we left the cemetery that night, the cold felt different. Heavy, but hopeful. Christmas was still alive, just shared across heaven and home.

Appalachian Christmas Memories: Part Five