I pulled a box of Christmas decorations out of the basement last week and found a bunch of old holiday cards at the bottom from years past. They were photo cards on heavy paper, with rounded corners and shiny foil lettering exclaiming “Merry & Bright” or “Peace & Joy.” I flipped through the stack, a collection from neighbors, coworkers, childhood friends, college roommates, and family. The photos are mostly group shots, filled with kids growing up and heading to college, getting married, or having their first grandbabies. I’m not sure what to do with these cards — it seems odd to throw them out, but equally strange to pack them away year after year.
Maybe these cards feel significant to me because almost every photo we’ve taken in the last 15 years is digital and stored on our laptops and phones, barely looked at again. Taking the time to print out a photo means it’s a special one, worthy of saving.
I appreciate the creativity in the card designs and am grateful we still receive Christmas cards in an age where it feels like social media has replaced most forms of communication. Still, a part of me wishes we could go back to the days of handwritten cards. I miss hearing the details of the lives behind these gorgeously produced photo greetings. I appreciate it when someone takes the time to add a couple of lines of handwritten notes and a signature to the bottom of the card, or even insert a half-page printed letter with a few stories from the year.
As a kid, Christmas card writing seemed like the biggest project my mom took on each December. I remember scenes of kids caroling and elaborate horse-drawn sleighs filled with presents, glitter enhancing the snowy backgrounds, and getting all over the tablecloth. Mom would fill the kitchen table with the gear she needed: cards, envelopes, her well-worn address book, a long list of people who needed cards, and a roll of Christmas stamps. She would write each card by hand, her teacher’s penmanship elegantly addressing the outside envelope. When she was done, there would be a huge stack of cards and we’d make a special trip to the post office to mail them, my sister and I taking turns pushing them through the outgoing mail slot.
When we’d get cards from friends and family, she would double-check and update the address in her book and make a note about receiving a card. Too many non-reciprocal Christmas card years might get you removed from her mailing list, but I’m not sure how often that happened.
Sometimes the cards we got had photos stuck in them: “Timmy and Tommy, Sea World, ages 8 and 10” or “Trip to Wisconsin Dells with Grandma Jensen, 1978” and a folded letter on green copy paper titled “Jensen Family — A Year to Remember” with all the details of cross-country trips, learning to swim at summer camp and how Grandma Jensen was doing after Grandpa Jensen died last year. We’d read through them and then tape the cards and photos along the staircase, the spindles filling up as each day’s mail arrived. After the holidays, we’d carefully peel them off the wood, but I never paid attention to what happened after that. I suspect my parents were better at throwing out cards and photos than I am.
I did sort through my card collection, looking at them one last time before dropping them into the recycling bin. The new ones are starting to arrive, ready to be admired and then taped to our staircase. I think I’m going to skip the photo card this year and buy a box of sparkly Christmas cards.
I’ll sit at our kitchen table this weekend and try to write a personal note in each one. Maybe I’ll even print out a few photos to tuck inside, with “Trip to San Diego” and “Hiking with the dogs, 2021” written on the back in black pen. And I’ll probably save this year’s cards, at least for a little while, when we pack things up at the end of the season, because sometimes it’s good to be visited by the ghost of Christmas past.