Stopping for a last-minute ingredient the day before Thanksgiving, on my way into the supermarket, I came on a stack of evergreen Christmas wreaths; I could have just picked one up and tossed it into my cart. Cross that item off the list! Or a couple of days later, I could have selected one from an assortment of twenty or so at the nursery.
Instead, though, I am about to embark on my usual personal decorating for Christmas, a process I have always loved. Probably you and I are among thousands of people decorating right now readying our homes and delighting in the process.
Why do we all love wreaths? Why is it that something round, a circle, decorated and made festive, speaks of the holidays, of festivity and celebration? There are thousands upon thousands out there, too, if you enjoy a Google search. Wreaths come in all styles, secular or otherwise, and all sorts of materials, colors (or no color), and for that matter, are featured at other times of year, too.
But as the saying goes, Christmas keeps coming around. As does the cycle of the year, of time, and the world turning. Something is being completed, yet in my church tradition, the Advent season leads to Christmas Day and begins the Christian year. And, very important to me, a wreath offers a visual impression of equality, of arms and tables spread open wide and offered to all. It’s an “outward and visible sign” of embrace.
So of course, every year, my decorating includes a wreath.
No, make that three wreaths! For this year, as has happened before, I’m blessed by a trinity of wreaths. Not only does symbolism run strong, but also, wreaths offer so many ways to use creativity and honor tradition. In the process, I celebrate a kind of “three-ring Christmas.”

Come on by! And I’ll begin with your first impression. This wreath starts with a
“blank canvas” base, a synthetic green circle, probably some sort of shaggy plastic. Certainly it’s impervious to weather; such hardiness is important as our natural outside location for decorations gets full, hot sun. Just once we tried a real evergreen wreath there, and it got cooked in a matter of days.
So I bring “old faithful” down from the attic and as my English cousins would say, “tart it up” for another reign of sparkle and color to welcome people to our house. In one sense I might say, I like this one the most: I can do just about anything I want with it. Throw any color at this bushy canvas, festoon it or stud it or light it or . . . you name it. Fresh and fun, or bright, I make it different every year!
I’ve found that this one comes out best when I spend little time on it, just act on an idea and blaze through the work. Don’t fuss or sweat the details, for hopefully no one lingers on the doorstep, but instead comes in and spends time with us.

Come on in now, and meet a very different wreath.

This is what Andy and I call “Mom’s pinecone wreath,” though the term is something of a misnomer, and certainly an understatement. To be accurate, I should say “Mom’s wreath of pine cones, seed pods, and beautiful handwork.”
I’ve often written of Mom before: my mother-in-law, Lois Chapman Buffington. She was a great woman of immense talent and force, with whom I sometimes struggled; I also liked and respected her.
When I was first married to Andy, Mom was making these wreaths, in all sizes, for the church fair fundraiser at the East Walpole United Church of Christ. She made wreaths for the church sanctuary itself, too, but what I most remember was a large, handsome one in Andy’s childhood home. Mounted on a deep green background, it hung over the fireplace in the living room.
Mom’s handiwork was and is stunning: meticulously, she used many kinds of pine cones and seed pods, glued onto a rigid flat base plate; on that, she created an up-and-down varying surface. Searching and gathering. Mom eagerly sought out unusual specimens wherever she went, including Berkeley, California, when I first lived there. She always had plastic collecting bags on hand. I remember her kneeling on a Berkeley street corner, crawling about and combing the grass under a tree for seed pods. “What kind are these, Sally? Oh, and what are those called, those scrunched-up ones over there?” Alas for her delight in specific information! I was barely settled then and knew very little yet about what grew there.
In those wreaths, I think Mom achieved a level of design and craftsmanship far beyond amateur level. I honor her zeal and perseverance, even as I strained to help her with identification. Looking at them now, I think, her wreaths and their surfaces are so varied, it’s as though she thought topographically, which I think now reflects her love of travel, also her reporter’s training.

A very beautiful thing, also somewhat fragile, we hang this wreath where no one will brush against it. Mom herself was aware that people often sprayed her wreaths gold, which made for a dazzlingly handsome result; I’ve never wanted to, both because you can’t change it back, but more because that paint would obscure the shades and details of the natural things–when they are already so beautiful and interesting. Likewise, Mom’s mind and interests were varied—her conversation almost bristled, and my feelings about her might also be described in the same terms.
Yet it’s still good to have her presence with us in this season every year, as it also is with memories of my own mother, who also made wreaths, though more simply. As a child, I’d watch her begin by bending a coat hanger into a circle, for a frame; then she’d attach whatever greens we’d gathered from the yard or neighborhood. Some years, instead, she made a swag for the front door, a hanging bouquet, if you will, with a bow to conceal the gathered-together stems and cut ends of the pine and spruce branches. I almost liked the swags more, as they were never the same twice, and she was deft at combining materials. Eventually, though, like me, she’d buy a basic simple fresh green one and then work her magic on it.

Our third wreath is much like those my mother made. However, this one’s a balsam wreath from Maine, a lovely fragrant thing. It’s very traditional in many respects, including the pine cones and red velvet bow always supplied alongside.
Every year we receive a wreath like this as a gift from longtime friends. Sadly we don’t see Ann and George often, as they live in Indiana and after college, our two families built separate lives. But we’ve always kept in touch. I met Ann in music school, way back in the fall of 1968, and George a couple of years later. Both of us flutists, Ann and I followed often parallel paths: after marrying MIT-trained Physics Ph.D’s who also loved and played music, we both taught, raised two daughters, and have pursued our careers with passion and still do. The friendship is a treasure, something we all rely on, a warm reserve.
So, for me, the whiffs of balsam breathe out the old saying about Christmas
Never a Christmas morning,
Never the old year ends,
But somebody speaks of someone,
Old days, old times, old friends.

My wreaths, yours and many others, not only decorate our days in this season, but these magic circles encompass thoughts of connection and continuity, oh, and memories, color, and love, to name a few.
Unexpectedly, as I wrote this piece, hoping to find a good image to end with, I found in my files a photo of—oh, yes—three wreaths! Courtesy of San Diego Airport, seen a few years ago when we picked up newly arrived family. Oh, yes, these are very public wreaths, identical and conventional, but they’re cheerful nonetheless, welcoming, and just maybe, a good symbol of cheer and loving wishes to everyone who reads this, whether you’re local or live thousands of miles away.
I send you warm wishes! May you be wreathed in love and blessings as this tired old year ends and the new one begins.