This piece was originally published almost four years ago, in December 2014. It’s once again the season for traditions, memory holders, and that purple bin that I just lugged up from the basement for its annual emptying.
I venture into the unfinished part of the basement, and survey the towers of Rubbermaid containers until I find the purple one, sandwiched between the orange Halloween tub and the gray tub whose contents are a mystery. I slide the 14 gallon container out like a Jenga block, and lug it upstairs.
Hanukkah begins tonight, and the purple bin holds all our menorahs and dreidels. We light three menorahs each night of Hanukkah, so that by the last night 27 flames make the walls of our kitchen shimmer. But the bin is full of many more menorahs, and not one stays tucked away during those eight nights.
The one Matt and I received as a wedding gift, from a family friend who passed away years ago.
The one five-year-old Gwen crafted out of a block of wood and washers, boldly painted with pink and blue swirls.
The clay one that three-year-old James created, holes too shallow to hold a candle upright.
The one my mother lit every year of my childhood, and the two that my grandmother lit even before I was born.
I have never purchased a menorah; I prefer to use the ones that hold memories under the hardened candle wax that settles in the crevices year after year.
I lift each menorah out of the bin and arrange it on the table, creating a Hanukkah landscape of brass, clay, plastic, and wood. I add the dreidels I bought for each child’s first Hanukkah, and scatter them among the chanukiahs with the dozen smaller tops I’ve collected over the years.
I admire my handiwork, and look into the bin to make sure I’ve emptied it. I haven’t; two small boxes remain, corners frayed and lids dented.
Matt and I both grew up with Christmas trees, and we put up our own for the first three years of our marriage. We had no children, and we were both reluctant to give up the secular tradition that we remembered from our childhoods. But we were committed to raising our family in the Jewish faith, so the tree was given away once our daughter was born. With it went the lights and almost all of the ornaments.
I pull the worn boxes out of the purple bin, and rediscover the ornaments I saved, those memory holders of our first years of marriage.
The fake crystal heart I excitedly bought months after our wedding that says Our First Christmas Together 1995.
The sand dollar painted with a bride and groom that my mother-in-law gave us that same year.
The clay toucan ornament I bought on our honeymoon.
The pair of teddy bears in Christmas stockings from 1997, the last year our family was a twosome.
As I do every year, I lift each ornament out and remember the young woman who hung them on a tree. I tuck them back in their boxes until Hanukkah is over. When I pack up the dreidels and menorahs, the candle wax still soft on the metal, I take out the ornaments again. I hold them one last time, and then I close the lid on the purple bin until next year.
Joining Finish the Sentence Friday with Kristi and Kenya.
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