Stockings have been my “unfinished business” for the last 11 years.
My Grandma made mine, my sister’s, my parents. She made stockings for every extended family member, in red felt or velvet, with sequinned Santa, holly, & bell appliqués. I remember my Dad’s siblings rotating the Christmas host duties, and recognizing the same designs in the line upon the mantel, everyone’s name embroidered in cursive crimson yarn.
When I started dating Kyle, my Mom reworked the disused family dog’s stocking, so that his would match.
When we got married, I was told on no uncertain terms was I to break up the family set: Kyle’s & mine were to stay on the Reiter mantel. We were in a basement suite our first year, and anyway I didn’t have a fireplace to hang anything. It felt so strange not to have stockings, so as a temporary measure I bought some cheapies from the dollar store and tucked them to hang out of high drawers in our games cabinet, just so I could see the familiar sight.
Grandma graciously gave me the cutoff remains of what supplies she had; a bit of red flannel, a short string of pearly sequins, red eyelet ribbon, and green quilt backing for a tree skirt—which I did make that first year. But I did not possess the needlework ability that I do now, and though she’d given me two blank stockings, I knew I wanted a matching set… and there wasn’t enough material for our future kids’. The supplies went into storage.
Our second Christmas, it so happened that we had bought and moved into Grandma’s condo. Lo, there was a fireplace, and one rife with memory! In that very room, she had hand stitched all the stockings. But we had painted the fireplace a fresh Frost White… only to realize with dismay that the 19yo paint underneath was unforgivingly oil-based. Anything set on that mantle needed to be light and soft, or it scratched our naive paint job.
But even with Homesense across the street, I could not find stocking hangers to suit me. Too heavy, too ugly, too expensive. Any anyway, there was still the matter of making the darn things.
Every December when we unpacked the tree skirt, the precious bundle of red flannel and half-finished appliqués would pop out and remind me that I had unfinished business. Half-heartedly, I would scour Google once again to see if some stocking or hanger set-up would catch my eye. But nothing ever seemed just right.
For the next 7 years, those dollar store placeholders hung from the cabinet drawers. Oh, sometimes I pulled out those two blank Santa stockings Grandma had gifted me, but nameless and identical, it wasn’t the same. I would weight them down on the mantle with a flat rock or a vase, and when filled on Christmas Eve they’d lie on the hearth like engorged gluttons.
Then we had Bianca. My conundrum compounded. Now what? I wasn’t about to go buy another polyester flannel from Dollarama. We had 2 good stockings, 2 crap ones… and one giant procrastinator. My mother, in impatience and pity, bought some puffy 3D one from the (drum roll) dollar store and embroidered Bianca’s name on it. But it didn’t match anything or anywhere. It worked for when she was little, but when she was old enough to notice…
Then we moved to Langley. There, we had guest rooms to spare. The grandparents were eager to watch their 1.5yo granddaughter on Christmas morning, so they slept over on the Eve—and brought the family stockings!
I had a fireplace, I had sturdy brass cup hooks, and a garland. I had a ruby string of stockings strewn across my mantel! After a short, persuasive discussion, our three stockings were relinquished and re-homed under our roof.
It is no small thing, passing onward the tokens that delay the arrival of Empty Nest Era. Now, my parents’ mantel would gape like a six-year old’s grin, when mine was fullsome.
Many, many home improvement projects were prioritized in our first 2 years here. There barely seemed enough time in December to make my gift soap batch, shop for presents, mail the Christmas cards…and before I could blink it was COVID. But there was more to come. Baby #2 was coming.
Baby season pairs well with small handicrafts, as with a preschooler who wears out her knees. Between Netflix episodes, bedtime rituals and evening feeds, I could set my darning aside, needle securely stabbed somewhere visible, and after the kids were comforted return to my little mending project.
I’m ready. We are 4. Dane’s name adorns one of the Santa stockings; the other I’ll swap in a sequinned tree for Bianca.
Maybe I’ll reconstruct Kyle’s stocking, so his name is embroidered on the cuff too. Likely not til next year.
Regardless, having all four all in a row, rubescent and twinkling with Grandma’s loving stitches in each one, gives me joy and grief to never share the sight with her, gone now almost 3 years. But evidence of her is everywhere, and not just in the Christmas ornaments.
Bianca asks me to fix all manner of things, with my needle and thread: a seam-burst wombat, a shredded rose petal (sorry, kid), toe-holey sock. She’s learning that making things with our hands, and fixing what we have, takes time and love, and it makes things better.
I’m learning that, too. And I love that legacy.