The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 5: The decorations

• • "Christmas is not as much about opening our presents as opening our hearts."
• • Janice Maeditere

AUBURN, Maine - We drag out nearly a dozen boxes  from our damp-and dark cellar every December.

We lug the boxes upstairs and begin sorting through bulbs and home-made decorations, each with its own precious history.

The tree has been stationed in the corner of the living room and its bare branches will soon be covered with cherished decorations and tinsel wraps.

Each bulb or ornament marks the passing of time and has its own story to tell. Decorating the tree is like taking a trip down memory lane each yuletide.

We remember Aunt Eddie's homemade angel ornament or my mother's funny gift of a Dunkin Donuts decoration. We go through all the ornaments as try to remember where they all came from.

There are so many ornaments the we have acquired over the last few decades. My wife, who is a full-time ed tech at a junior high, has received many ornaments from students and fellow teachers. There are decorations that my son handmade in elementary school and unique ornaments from her mother.

For instance, there is Anthony's green-painted ornament with a picture of him pasted on the front.

It is priceless.

"Our First Christmas Together" is always a sentimental favorite. 

We have so many ornaments that they can't fit on a 6-foot Christmas tree. So we bought a small fake tree at a yard sale last year to accommodate our decorations.

No ornament will be left in behind. That is our motto.

Some ornaments break and are reluctantly disposed of in the trash. It is like tossing away a memory.

It hurts.

And there are the dazzling ornaments that nobody knows where they came from. But we enjoy the mystery and still place them upon our tree - no questions asked.

Just when we are about to place a moratorium on purchasing another ornament to add to our vast collection, there is always one decoration that we can't with live without.

Anthony couldn't resist purchasing a glass-bulb ornament with "The Alamo" nestled inside this unique decoration.

Thinking about "The Alamo" made me feel warm and fuzzy all over.

But what is wrong with adding a new memory to our tree each year?

Take me back to the ball game

"You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you're a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen."

- Joe Dimaggio

     AUBURN, Maine — Whoever thought a short story  about one spectacular moment in Red Sox history could resurrect a dormant memory about my deceased mother's past.

      The fond memory had been shoved aside to make room for the daily deluge of life's experiences that cram my crowded brain.

Songs, smells and certainly pictures of the past can also pry memories loose. Strolling the isles of an indoor flea market sends me down memory lane, too. All it takes is a rotary phone or an old Philco radio to trigger recollections of family members who have passed away.

This book, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," has now become a treasured possession. It was graciously given to me by my sister, Brenda, a year ago. 

The article detailing Ted Williams' last at-bat at Fenway Park on Sept. 28, 1960 was written by the late Pulitzer-prize winning author John Updike, and it first appeared in "The New Yorker" on Oct. 20, 1960. The 52-year-old magazine piece was turned into a book and published in 2010.

Updike writes about his fascination with baseball and Williams, who was also endearingly known as "The Splendid Splinter" and "Teddy Ballgame." It is indeed a splendid book about Williams' last hurrah at Friendly Fenway.

The storied moment, when Williams smacked his 521st home run in last at-bat in his 19-year career, is still talked about by the Fenway Faithful.

Decades later, my mother mentioned Williams' parting shot in passing at the kitchen table. She told the tale with a wide smile. I have spent hours in the kitchen listening to my mother's stories about her childhood and marriage to my father. My dad, on the other hand, left the storytelling to my mom, and she could spin a good yarn.

      

What I forgot was that my mother was THERE when The Splendid Splinter cracked one out of the park and into the record books. 

I know baseball fanatics who would trade their homes — or their wives for that matter — to witness Williams make his final round trip around the diamond. I know I am romanticizing this extraordinary moment in Major League Baseball's history. It is like watching "The Natural" all over again, and Williams is my parents' Roy Hobbs.

I was rolling around in a crib when my mother and father witnessed history on a cloudy September day in Boston over five decades ago.  My dad, whose memory is disappearing as Alzheimer's gets the upper hand, doesn't remember who babysat me. My mother was our living reference. When we had questions about our family's history, she was the go-to person until she passed away two years ago on a warm March Monday.

I cling to this memory of my parents catching a glimpse of Williams' final performance at Fenway Park. I need to hold on to those memories of my mother since I can no longer hold on to her in this life. I remember when she spoke about Williams and his home run. She just smiled as her eyes lit up the dinner table.

Williams' Fenway farewell in September 1960 is just another opportunity to remember my mother and keep her close to my heart.

But if Ray Kinsella could grant me one baseball wish, I would ask the Iowa farmer to find me a seat at Fenway on that September day to see — my parents together again as they watched Williams hammer out a piece of Red Sox history.