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My Christmas memories are bookended by two angels, very different in composition, color, and context, and separated by geography as well as a huge generational divide.
The first angel was plastic with transparent wings, wavy blonde plastic hair, and two spots of blue in the little indentations where her eyes should be. She had a hole at the bottom of her star-studded plastic robe; that’s where a bulb was to be inserted to brighten her skirts when the tree was lit. She was a tree topper, about eight inches tall, a size that would allow her to reign over our 1950s holiday spruce.
At least, that was the way I saw it with my four-year-old eyes. The average holiday tree back then was between 5–6 feet tall, so eight inches was more than enough to be its focal point at the top. (Today’s average tree is 7–8 feet tall, and the size of the decorations to adorn them has increased proportionately).
My mother had given me the final choice of tree topper and I was bursting with pride at this display of parental confidence. I wasn’t yet in kindergarten and yet she had entrusted me with this monumental decision! Somehow, I understood even then that my selection would have…
