Wrapping Up Memories

It’s that time of year when the ghosts of Christmas wrapping past come to visit me. They appear while I go through my seasonal routines. I’ve done some gift shopping and there is no need to purchase more wrapping, but, oh, those gorgeous tubes of fine papers on the racks, so fresh and smooth. They sing little carols to me as I wait in line to pay for my purchases, their fresh flecks of gold and tiny galloping reindeer cheerfully calling out in their maximalist joy for me to “pick them.”

But wait … I know I have stacks of wrapping material at home! Each year some previously used paper and gift bags make their way back under the tree. As an exercise in reduction and reuse, I take great care to stop the precious papers from being tossed into the woodstove, or worse, into a large black bag headed for landfill. But saving wrapping paper and ribbon is more than an exercise in pragmatism; it is part of my family tradition.

My mom had a knack not only for wrapping gifts beautifully but for saving the remnants as well. Her presentations were a visual gift to behold. Each year she somehow produced a masterclass on how to offer a gift with not only love but artistic flair. Ribbons with tiny wire edges were bent into large, three-dimensional bows, catching light from the sparkling tree above. A small ornament sometimes accompanied the gift, a tiny topper used as an exclamation point. And always, a warm note written in my mom’s loopy, left-handed script. Like the letters and ephemera in the Griffin and Sabine books, her notes often had mysterious hints and turns of phrases that left you guessing and excited to pull the ribbon open. 

I am not ashamed to say that our decorated trees and home looked like a Ralph Lauren ad or a Martha Stewart magazine. My mom was always artistic and this travelled through all she did. Christmastime was a wonder for her, her synapses lighting up like the tree as she went wild with paper, ribbons, candles, flowers, garlands, seasonal dishware and all the foods to fill them, along with extra blankets to snuggle under and chat, drawing out the long winter nights together. 

On Christmas morning, once the gifts were open, we would carefully wind up the ribbons while my dad went off to make breakfast. I would ask my mom, “Where did you get this? It’s so pretty.”

And she’d name the store, or remind me that it was an old piece, stored from years past. We took the time to remove the tape from the wrapping that was salvageable. Folding the paper carefully meant it could have another life. I kept many of the notes my mom wrote for me, and I’m sure my brother did too. They became bookmarks, or were perched on the edges of mirrors, or wrapped into stacks and saved in jewelry boxes or cedar chests. 

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Saving paper was economical, but it was also a way to hold onto seasons past and keep them close to your heart. It was a recognition of effort and care, and an appreciation of home arts. I wanted those pieces of paper to exist forever. As I pick out the ribbons each year, I recall the gift and sentiments they once enclosed. 

Now I draw on my artistic mother’s talents for inspiration in making an impression with my own gift-giving, reminiscing and imagining how I might replicate the glow and softness of the season in my home. Walking past the stores in downtown Orangeville during the tree lighting or on the odd winter evening draws memories in close as I gaze into the lighted windows and admire the wrapping and fancy ideas for presenting gifts to friends and family. My family may roll their eyes a little on Christmas morning as I refold the gift bags, carefully peel tape off paper that has been cut into smaller and smaller pieces year after year, and make hard decisions about tissue paper that isn’t quite reusable. But I treasure these paper memories and have a special box in the basement storage room for them. It’s always at max capacity.