DECEMBER 17, 2024 – Back in the day, the exchange of Christmas cards was one of my favorite aspects of the season. Even as a self-absorbed kid for whom Christmas presents were the biggest deal of all, I loved to be the one who got to check the mailbox and find it stuffed with newly arrived cards.
This seemingly endless stream of bright cards bearing cheery greetings and large-stroke signatures—and for several years running, family portraits—gave me a warm feeling about the world. Though our parents came from very small families—Dad was an only child; Mother’s only sibling, Uncle Bruce, had no spouse or kids—they had large circles of friends and acquaintances. The vast majority of them sent us Christmas cards, and for each card received, Mother and Dad signed, sealed and sent a card.
Most of the people my sisters and I knew but others—mostly Mother’s college and East Coast friends—we knew only by name and what Mother told us about them. The most exotic card came early from one of Dad’s cousins in Sweden—“Sven Svensson” and his wife and daughter, whom we wouldn’t meet until we were in our 20s. The card always bore the words, “God Jul och Gott Nytt År,” which Dad explained was Swedish for, “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.” Decent enough, I thought, since they must believe in God. As I’d later learn, of course, “God” meant neither “God” nor “Merry” but simply “Good.” Cautious about over-exuberance, Swedes say “Good Christmas” instead of getting all merry and carried away about it.
By the grand annual exchange of cards, letters and pictures, I felt connected to people in a tangible way that eludes us today. I remember sitting down periodically with the large baskets that Mother used to hold the cards and combing through them one-by-one. I marveled at how people would connect with one another by way of Christmas cards.
It was fun to witness and even assist Mother and Dad in their Christmas card project. They’d spread everything out on the dining room table and work at it all evening—signing cards, addressing the envelopes, sticking stamps and return address labels on them, then with a sponge, wetting the seal on the envelop flap of each envelope and pressing it closed. I enjoyed their talk back and forth about the countless recipients.
When I cleared out the full-story attic of our parents’ home after Dad had died and we’d moved Mother to an assisted living facility, I found among many other long-hidden treasures, years upon years of Christmas cards. It appeared as though every single one had been saved; each a symbol of friendship or acquaintance in a world long past. In the case of many families, I discovered annual photo-cards that documented changes in clothing styles and appearances over a period of years in the 1960s.
Some were quite amusing, such as the ones from the “Ed and Alice Colemans” who lived down the street. They were a good-looking family with six kids and their pet Boxer. Mr. (later “Judge”) Coleman was a lawyer with an office right on Main Street in the heart of downtown Anoka. He had a large square head and a countenance that gave him the appearance of someone who always meant business, even when he wasn’t doing business. His tough look matched the face of the Boxer. When I discovered several years’ worth of Coleman Christmas photo-cards, which featured the family seated and standing around a sofa in their well-appointed living room, I couldn’t help but notice how with each year, Ed bore a closer resemblance to the dog until the two mugs—man and dog’s—were interchangeable.
Now, a million year later, a few of our modern friends still adhere to the ancient tradition of sending Christmas cards. In number they are a tiny fraction of what we used to receive—and send. By their rarity, however, they achieve a special value that hearkens back to “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.”
During the 1990s and first decade of the current century, the Christmas letter was in vogue. Each year during Thanksgiving week I’d craft something and spruce up the heading with my attempt at elementary drawing. I’d then submit a draft to Beth—and sometimes to our sons—for approval. After appropriate revisions we’d then send out a large bunch but mostly to family and friends beyond our immediate geographic orbit. Although in aggregate the letters served to chronicle our family’s activities, eventually we tired of our own annual press release. Taking its place was a group photo which was mailed later and later until most (of fewer and fewer) were posted after New Year Day. I cannot explain why our deep appreciation for the cards, pictures, and letters that kind and generous family and friends send us doesn’t motivate us to reciprocate on the same level of quality and magnitude.
To say, “We’re getting old” is patently lame and lazy, but at least we aren’t saying, “Bah! Humbug!” In fact, this year, if we can get our figurative act together, we’re imagining the broadcast transmittal of a figurative Western Union telegram that reads:
IN IMMORTAL WORDS OF TT GOD BLESS US EVERYONE STOP[1]
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1] To reduce our distribution cost, recipients would need add their own punctuation.
