Was I really trying to prove 80 is the new 79?

Or did I perhaps have help a year ago that I was hesitant to ask for this Christmas season?

I can’t say what happened — it was all far too quick — though the entire box of tree ornaments bouncing down every single step from the attic to the garage floor seemed to last an eternity.

The box with its ominous rattle of shards of glass remained unopened for over twenty-four hours. I couldn’t bear to look. Besides, why get upset until the tree was positioned and the lights all worked? Then — and only then — would I be forced to survey what I suspected was maximum damage.

Before that, moreover, there were boxes to be mailed, letters to write . . . lots, in fact, to keep me occupied (though not my mind as I would have wished).

I remember the bells as I shower. Somebody is trying to offer reassurance for the bells are big and red — and metal! I also have metal icicles that, when twisted, reveal a second color. My old icicles are glass but each has a secure place in its box — could there be hope? The ones that came from my parents’ trees are plastic. I presume they too must be safe.

My brother and his wife gave me numerous brass musical instruments over the years. The Disney characters, bought because Mickey played the bass, are fairly secure in their box. Many of my other basses are wood. One can hope.

But the dated glass balls, an annual gift from my father and not wrapped at all — well, time will tell. Time too soon. Before his death in 2003, there would be a new one each year, maybe not all picked out by him personally as he grew older but chosen with love none the same.

It’s late afternoon before I finally force myself to get with it. Fourteen and a half pounds and not a large box — no excuse for losing it.

It occurred to me as I began that, perhaps unlike many families. I have very few ornaments made when my girls were young. One flour-dough snowman created when my first grandson was really young (with a great deal of help for his mom) lost his bottom snowball. That could readily be glued back on and the spot of black mold on the back of his head ignored for another season. It’s already thirty years old!

And the glass geese from London and San Francisco’s cable car are safe.

I unpack so many dog ornaments for Minor (finding just one for Major). The dog got so excited when I put up the tree. I doubt if it’s the lights or all the reflected glory that brings on his enthusiasm. Minor knows “tree” will ultimately mean presents. He’s happy to run his own delivery service: take this gift to whomever I mention and he does without hesitating. And Minor loves gifts. Will he be here to share again next year? Losing him when that year comes will be much more difficult than anything I’ve lost now.

When (IF) these columns get incorporated into a book (I do have the idea), let this be filed under “things are seldom as dire as one might anticipate.” Turns out the ornaments from my father were mostly foam-based and all survived. Many of the really old glass balls did too. That was a very happy surprise. As any who have ever helped me trim a tree in the past can attest, when I’m finished there isn’t a branch that doesn’t have something dangling or tucked within.

My girls will aver that I had few rules when decorating the Christmas tree. The cords for the lights had to be hidden in the greenery so only lights shown through. Of course to “properly” hide those nasty cords, ofttimes a tie was needed. I collected them (and reused year after year), preferring the green ties from the grocery store. I find I’m still tucking them away — with only faint dreams of returning to those good ol’ days of living trees.

Once the lights met with my approval, then every last icicle had to dangle straight up and down. After that it was the more the merrier. In my mind there was always room for one more decoration.

There was damage — of course — but I was surprised how little — or perhaps it’s just because all the pieces drifted to the bottom so the loss doesn’t look like as much. I brought a large clear plastic dog food container for the damaged parts and pieces and knew where I could easily get a second. Not needed at all.

I was able to rescue far more of the plain glass ornaments — and then immediately dropped — and broke — one. ‘Twas it ever thus? Then one of the old glass icicles came apart in my hand. Blame that on age — not mine.

The very oldest ones survived. In fact, only the bottom level took the hit, cushioning all above. (Or did the breakage just sift down?) I do feel blessed for it obviously could have been much worse.

I stop now and reflect. Isn’t that what the true meaning of this Holy season is all about? The Blessings . . . and Gifts. So many come when least expected.

And that’s the point!

Susan Crossett has lived outside Arkwright for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. “Her Reason for Being” was published in 2008 with “Love in Three Acts” following in 2014. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.