Tinsel and Tin

Oh, is it Wednesday already? Cripes, Wednesday is actually almost a thing of the past. Not only is it late Wednesday, but it's boxing time, too. By this I don't mean shopping, or the thing those lugheads do in the ring. It's boxing time, as in time to box the tinsel. Remember tinsel? (Is that stuff still legal?) Remember when we used to fling those weightless, metallic fettuccine-length strands all over the Christmas tree? Limp, glimmering icicles drooped in big clumps at various levels around the balsam fir. Then handmade ornaments, painted wood Santas, and origami geese were tucked in every crevice. The big-bulbed tree lights, multicolored and backed by tin reflectors, were turned on with much pomp and circum-stance, Christmas music blaring from the Hi-Fi.

There is no tinsel or tin to take from my tree. None to box. But every once in a while, Mother will haul certain vintage items out of attic storage. I want to tell her how amazing she is for keeping all this stuff, but I don't want to encourage her. Stuff. She keeps it all. Everything. I want to say, Look Mom, you know the only place you can find this Stuff now is in your attic or on Etsy? Sometimes, she'll bring something by the house, asking if I want to keep it (like my elementary school report cards, worn high school jackets, and coupon books—good for one dish washing, redeem for best behavior—that I made for her when I was eight). And of course, I must. So now my basement is starting to look like her attic. And here I am trying to purge, declutter.

But I don't mind.

I love this Stuff. I think I'll get me a warm cup of tea and go boxing now.