There was the
year we made festive ornaments by painstakingly pinning sequins onto styrofoam
balls. Or the year we colored snowflakes
and teddy bears on dish towels with fabric markers. There was even a year in which we
cross-stitched, the horror of which I won’t detail here but suffice it to say
mom took care that subsequent years’ crafts did not involve needles.
By far our
greatest success was the toaster tongs, a fairly simple construction of two
tongue depressors glued onto a piece of dowel rod, designed to remove hot items
from the toaster. My mother had stolen
the idea from a far more engineering child than any of her own at a school
craft fair, but we gave it that special Rinder flair by painting tiny blobular
wreaths and holly berries on the tongue depressors – an enhancement that we all
began to question when the tongs proved highly durable and were still being
used in July.
Our output was
the stuff that grandparents dream of and the rest of the world views with a
certain nervous curiosity. For the aunts
and uncles and neighbors lucky enough to receive their annual gift in person,
the response was akin to how I imagine they would have reacted should one of
their own children have brought home a wounded woodland creature, outwardly
admiring the animal’s cuteness and the child’s initiative while inwardly
devising any means possible to prevent this bunny (or stenciled napkin holder)
from entering their home. And yet
despite these misgivings our loved ones oohed and aahed our creations
tirelessly each year. Clothespin
reindeers! Potpourri sachets! OJ pencil cans!
The truly
tireless one, however, was my mother.
Not only was she the brains behind the operation, but as the years
passed and our general enthusiasm for crafting waned she was also forced to be
somewhat of a stern taskmaster, herding us into the dining room every Saturday
in December and drowning out our moans and suffering sighs with Bing Crosby,
Johnny Mathis and the sheer force of her crafting cheer. Her enterprising spirit would have put the
pilgrims to shame. As it was, however,
we kids felt that we were the ones shamed, forced to participate in what we
considered children’s crafts well
into our teenage years.
And yet now,
many years later, Lindsey has initiated the same practice with her children,
Alison reminisces fondly of the sequined ornaments, and even I find myself
seized each December with a certain crafting je nes se quois. As the air
turns chill and the city becomes blanketed in icicle lights, there is a part of
me that just wants to get out the felt markers and hot glue and, you know, make
stuff. At first I thought I could satiate
this annual holiday urge via baking.
Classic case of correlation rather than causation. Then I reasoned perhaps if I started my
Christmas shopping earlier, that joyous spirit of holiday giving would be
allowed to develop to maturation and could tide me over until January (when the
holiday crafting inclination seems to dissipate on its own, supplanted by the
New Years inclination to be a different person). But shopping too proved not entirely
fulfilling.
It wasn’t until
I opened up the ol’ Macbook yesterday to begin writing my annual post that I
realized-- this is it. Misshapen,
eclectic, a bit of a burden on author and readers alike, the rumball is my
holiday craft project. And as much as it
may pain you dear readers, you know you can count on its arrival each late December to early January as surely as
the driven snow. Er, something.
So as we stand
on the precipice of the new year, staring into the beady eyes of 2013, filled
with a mixture of anticipation and indigestion, remember this – no matter what
happens over the next 12 months, we can all meet back here next December 31st
to toast our triumphs and laugh at our failures together.
Unless my
toaster tong startup takes off on Kickstarter.
In which case, it’s been real.
*This post is dedicated to loyal reader
Jen, who consistently provides me with inspiration and the confidence that my
post will have at least 1 reader. Jen,
your first pair of toaster tongs™ is on the house.
**Blobular wreath not included.
