Nutcrackers

If you were to see this nutcracker, or similar version in a store, you might glance at him briefly and pass on by. Granted, he's adorned with some flashy gold glitter and sparkly glass, even gold braids and epaulets, but nothing extraordinary in the world of nutcrackers. Nothing sets him apart, and yet he is special. He belonged to someone special.

My mother collected nutcrackers. Each year she placed them around the house, sometimes at the base of the piano, others on the mantel, or scattered them from room to room where they royally greeted whoever entered. I never asked her why she collected them, which ones particularly  caught her eye. Did she have a story to tell about one of them? I wish I had.

At the end of each holiday season, she wrapped them carefully in the same scraps of newspaper and cushioned them in a large, blue plastic storage bin...the same bin I opened a few weeks ago. The same scraps of newsprint surrounded the familiar faces, now looking up at a daughter carrying on her mother's tradition.

I added a nutcracker to my mother's collection about fifteen years ago when Drew and I lived in Moscow. We often visited Izmailovo, a combination flea market, bazaar, arts, crafts, antiques, souvenirs, Soviet memorabilia shopping extravaganza.  During one visit, I happened upon an artisan selling his handcrafted nutcrackers. They looked nothing like the glitzy, polished versions in my mother's assembly. I wanted to ask the man about how he made them, whether he thought his creations might be truer to what Tchaikovsky, a fellow Russian, had in mind when he wrote the famous ballet. Unfortunately, my Russian and his English did not allow for that conversation to happen.

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When I gave the Russian nutcracker to my mother, I'm not sure that she fully appreciated his "plainness." She thanked me with her usual graciousness, though, and he showed up every year thereafter alongside his store-bought companions.  After all, I had given it to her.

As I finish wrapping our family's Christmas presents this year, I fret (one of my mother's favorite words) about  whether I have just the right gift for each person. The nutcrackers, in their collective wisdom, remind me - once again -  that it's not the gift, but the love of the person who gives it, that makes it special. 

Wishing you love and peace,
​Twylla