I never want to let Christmas go, doing mental figuring as to which of its “twelve days” is current, and whether that day is represented by “geese,” “rings,” or “tubeless tires” (the Stan Freberg version).

Part of this comes from being raised Lutheran, as I think such trees in Lutheran homes always stand a much greater chance of making it to the first day of Epiphany (Jan. 6). Years ago, I had some friends who kept their tree into “Christmas’ 180th day,” resulting in something “seasonally skeletal” long before Tim Burton’s movie.

Christmas’ decorative glitter lasts, stopping me in my tracks now, as in childhood. Its brightness in light, natural or artificial (seeming like scattered flecks of sunshine itself) never fails to attract. It’s basically aluminum foil chopped into “minutiae” in which a face couldn’t possibly see its reflected image, as would be with a whole sheet of Reynolds. A mite might be able to use one of those reflective specs as a mirror before leaving its house (but only if it were sufficiently vain). 

Just the other day, one of the new female employees at our science museum seemed to have a certain “glow” about her. I don’t know the source, whether it was from handling Christmas decorations, unwrapping glittery items in our gift shop, or those makeups which include mica as an ingredient.

Random, lingering glitter on one’s person resembles similarly random, lingering cat hair, with much more reflectivity.

If the “spec” in our brother’s or sister’s eye were glitter, we might choose to leave it there.

Thinking just now of mica in makeup, the thought suddenly came to me how ground bits of pyrite would be much more reflective as a component of ladies’ cosmetics; but considering how men are easily duped, the use of “fool’s gold” in such might be too dangerous (though appropriate) .

Another recent instance of seasonal glitter “striking” my eye was when a fellow employee was sitting in his car after work a few days before Christmas, frantically signing, then putting Christmas cards in envelopes and addressing them.

He was doing this, all to the necessary accompaniment of his car’s map-light, before driving by the Post Office.

Here again, just as with the new female employee’s glitter, the Christmas cards’ covers “glowed” (even in dim light) prior to envelopment.

Then, there is the case of my styrofoam “glitter-ball” Christmas tree ornament, made in Mrs. Overman’s third-grade class at Granite Quarry School in 1960. Under that “ton” of long-lasting glittery design lies a similar amount of Elmer’s Glue which, I’m sure, is the reason for the decoration’s longevity. Each year, a few specks of glitter wind up on my hands, but “there’s more where that came from,” just as with our brain cells.

I’m reminded of the statement concerning how many brain cells are lost each year due to age and imbibing. (The blame for mine lost while at Appalachian can be placed solely upon the town of Blowing Rock, for at the time, Boone was “dry.”)

Not long ago, I opened up an old, yellowed envelope containing an old, yellowed, but glittery Christmas card from the past (in a paraphrase: “Long past? No, my past”).

In spite of the card’s being enclosed in that protective envelope, some of its glittery snow became loosened from “gluey” clouds and had “fallen” again, though unseen (bringing to mind the light bulb in the refrigerator and the falling tree in a forest without human onlooker). Shaking the envelope produced a “tinkly” sort of “sleety” sound.

It gave the effect of a snow globe (though opaque) in which all the water had leaked out. The same happened with a Christmas-themed snow-globe made by my son Jeremy in the lower grades. It consisted of a tiny plastic deer glued inside a sealed baby food jar into which water and “snowy” glitter had been placed. A hairline crack developed in the glass, resulting in the water leaking out, leaving the deer standing in dry “snow” (even drier than that snow which we call “dry”).

The “snow” could still be shaken up, but thereafter always fell with an almost imperceptible “thud.”

I carefully felt my old card again, resulting in a single speck of un-melting “snow” on my index finger. My daughter Rachel had a childhood book in which Santa’s beard could be felt, but its cotton stayed put.

Gingerly placing the aged card back into its envelope, I figured that prior to my future chance looking, it would probably “snow” there again.