There is a long ribbon of cards over my living room window. It carries the history of our greetings over the past two score years. The first couple are the ones John and I sent to each other when we were still at the flirting stage, followed by a silk screened design from the season we were engaged. There were several stenciled images, and paper cast angels. A bunch were drawn by our children, and three were tiny quilts. There are a flurry of photographs, and one with a red cardinal. Two involved handmade paper.

 

Then there were inserts. Once we included a foil star, another time a snowflake with an embedded name, and even a rubber band. It made sense at the time.

 

My allegiance to cards runs deep. Our father was a minister, and my mother felt strongly about offering Christmas cheer to everyone in their care. Added to relatives and friends over the years their list ran in the three hundreds. We children were the assembly line. 

 

I recall the time my sister and I were enlisted to marble paper in blues and purples. This made the backdrop for the Bethlehem sky, and we cranked up the music while we worked in the garage. Then was a year when I drew a landscape of sheep and shepherds, which my father mimeographed. I hand painted each little figure. As the deadline for mailing approached, my parents said it would be alright for me to skip school in order to finish. That small gesture impacted me both with the importance of my contribution, and the value of a handmade message. 

 

If practicality ruled supreme, the practice would have become extinct ages ago. The cost, changing addresses, environmental impact, and the bother of licking envelopes all pose a deterrent for any but the most adamant of senders. No matter. Others who find less glee in cards, perhaps indulge in a marathon of cookie baking, or climbing their eighty foot beech to hang colored balls for the delight of passersby. No stamp necessary, though bravado comes in handy.