My mother’s jewelry, a tree and a new Christmas tradition

When my mom died of heart disease at age 74, in 2018, my strongest memories were about our troubled relationship. She was a mother of three, divorced and struggled with mental health issues most of her adult life. She was also lonely, and I failed to recognize that when I was younger.

This Christmas, I found myself recalling things my mother loved. She took delight in jewelry, always sharing her latest find, whether it was a ring reset with precious stones or a rocking deal on earrings at Goodwill. Her jewelry boxes and chest with long pull-out sliders had stacks upon stacks of necklaces and bracelets.

When I was a child, come December my mother decorated the house like a Hallmark holiday movie. Wreaths, garland, Santa dish towels, plastic poinsettias, reindeer figurines and a wooden German Christmas pyramid — the one that spins when you light the candles. In round and square tins, she stacked freshly baked crescent cookies, snickerdoodles, chocolate crinkles, gingerbread cookies, lemon bars and my favorite, chocolate peanut butter squares. She bought all the Christmas gifts for us kids.

As I grew up, though, I noticed a cloud that grew darker around my mom. By the time I was an adult living away from my divorced parents, the holidays became a battle. My mom demanded emotional and physical attention. Each year, she cried and yelled at me, saying I planned to spend more time with my dad than her during the holidays. She counted — down to the hour — how much time she had with me. What I did or how much time I spent with her was never enough.

When I was a child, come December my mother decorated the house like a Hallmark holiday movie.

I now understand how the guilt-trips that scarred our relationship came from a much deeper place in her heart — a long-buried wound that hadn’t healed. Her father passed when she was a young teenager, and her mother worked the night shift at a diner in Milwaukee. As a young person, my mom was alone most of the time. As an adult she had major episodes of depression, and we all bore the brunt of her suffering. The pleasant times were later muted by her wicked tongue or by days of self-confinement in a bedroom. She felt lonely, in her marriage, and after she and my father divorced.

My mother had chronic pain of an unknown origin in the last decade of her life. Her companions were cigarettes, painkillers and the television. She had more doctor appointments than outings with the few friends she had. For most of each day she lay in bed or on the couch, trapped by pain. She stopped traveling, even to visit me.

Despite our challenges, I was the adult child she repeatedly called to confide that she wanted to end her life. My assuring words that I loved her did little to sway her hopelessness. She ignored my suggestions to see a psychiatrist or to limit the painkillers. Her suffering became my sorrow. I felt powerless.

When my mother did die — of heart disease — I received her jewelry in multiple gallon-size Ziplock bags. There were bangles, chunky necklaces, long crystal necklaces and family heirlooms. Staring at the pieces sparked flashbacks and an unsettling feeling. Even the jewelry I bought her from my travels to Mexico, Ecuador and Hawaii were back in my palms.

For years, most of the jewelry sat in a cardboard box in a closet in the basement as far away from me as possible. I wear the expensive jewelry like her pearls or diamonds for special occasions, but otherwise, the only thing I’ve kept visible has been a baggie of her rings in my suitcase. Because my mom had larger fingers than me, hardly any of her rings fit. But every time I travel to see close friends, I bring those rings along, and they pick one out of my mom’s collection. I love the idea that her rings are being worn across the country, experiencing a new life, and I will continue that tradition.

But it wasn’t until this year, when someone on social media in my town of Medford asked people for jewelry to be donated for an art project, that I decided to reopen that dusty box. I sorted through the jewelry. I found more rings my mother never wore, with yellow tags from QVC television. I gave most of her jewelry away, but I thought of a way to honor my mom during Christmas.

I bought a white Christmas tree and dangled some of  her necklaces, rings, bracelets and earrings. I stood back and looked at how they glimmered under the white lights. Crystal and glass necklaces dazzled — pink, purple, green, blue and red.

Now, I have a new memory of my mom. This will be her Christmas tree, adorned with the jewelry she loved. And, in becoming part of my holidays, she will never be lonely again.

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