Because of an Angel Named Gloria
Most of my childhood is buried in a landfill somewhere near Houston. This is not a metaphor, but rather the sad outcome of foreclosure proceedings on my family's home when I was 12. When we left the white brick house, we moved into a rickety green wooden rental that slashed our living space in half. We took what we could carry in our vehicle -- mostly the necessities -- and left the rest behind. (When your home is being foreclosed, you generally can't afford a storage building.) But the house, and thereby everything in it, belonged to the bank, so they quietly and efficiently hauled off our belongings to a BFI landfill. Family and wedding photo albums, my mom's wedding dress, most of my and my brother's toys, our bronzed baby shoes that hung on the wall as proof of how far we'd come, a wall full of books, the majority of our family mementos and brick-a-brac. The junk that makes a house a home.
I'm telling you this because of an angel named Gloria. Growing up, we had a nativity set that my mom would unwrap and put out each Christmas. It was purchased from the Sears Trim Shop, according to the label on the box, and included 15 ceramic figurines that huddled together under a wooden manger that looked about as sturdy and weather-proof as our new rental. Every year, I played with the figurines for endless hours. I made up stories where the animals talked to the shepherd, the Wise Men got lost and never showed up, and Joseph complimented Mary a lot on her ability to ride a donkey. But by far, my favorite figurine was the angel.
She was beautiful. Perhaps three or four inches tall, with orangey-blonde hair and shimmering gold wings. I knew her name was Gloria, because that's what was printed on the banner draped gently between her outstretched hands. I'm absolutely sure she wore a robin's-egg-blue dress, unless maybe the dress was pink. Secretly, I thought she was going to run off with the shepherd, who was the only eligible bachelor in town. Perhaps to protect her virtue, my mom unbent a Christmas ornament hook to hang Gloria from the peaked roof of the manger, where she looked over the Baby Jesus and assorted animals when I wasn't playing with her. Perched there, she seemed safe and happy and secure. Nobody was going to come evict her...at least not until Epiphany when my mom would pack everything up until the next year.
I have no idea whether that nativity made it to our new house (or any of the other new houses that would come in quick succession after that), or if it lies entombed next to a half-rotten banana peel and a wadded up sheet of newspaper 1,200 miles from where I live now. I'd like to think I remember it being brought out during those chilly winters in the house that didn't have central heat, where we got dressed for school in front of the open gas oven as our main source of warmth. I'd like to think I remember that as clearly as Gloria's shimmering wings and blue (or pink?) dress, or as clearly as I remember all the nights I wondered if the electricity would still be on when I got home from school the next day.
In 2007, the first Christmas after my mom died (and the Christmas after I got married), I stumbled upon an identical Sears nativity set on eBay. Turns out there are people looking to rid themselves of the very things I long for. I purchased it in a fit of grief-stricken midnight web surfing, and eagerly awaited its arrival. But when I opened it, I found only 11 figurines -- and no Gloria. After scouring the other posts for similar sets, I determined that beautiful, angelic Gloria must not have been original to our nativity. I didn't know where she came from or why, but her absence left both a figurative and literal hole in my holiday. Now, several years later, it has come to symbolize many things I've lost, both tangible and intangible.
Tonight, for no reason at all, I searched eBay again for Gloria. After combing through many more postings for "vintage" (read: old) nativity sets from once-thriving department stores, I came across a single listing for a set of four figurines that was an add-on to the original 1971 Sears nativity set my mother owned. (If the year is correct, she would have purchased it for the first Christmas after she got married, a coincidence that felt both bitter and sweet.) The picture on the box featured a boy playing a guitar, a bearded man carrying what appeared to be a basket of bread, an angry looking camel, and one strawberry blonde angel with gold wings and a sash bearing the name Gloria. With the hopes of pulling one small sliver of my childhood from the trash, I emailed the seller to ask if all of the figurines were present. Unfortunately, they were not -- he or she had substituted an extra donkey and a sheep for the missing angry dromedary and my beloved Gloria.
Since I already have a life full of music and nourishment, I let the mismatched foursome go unpurchased. It's those things that just barely keep slipping out of my grasp that I'm still searching for.
I'm telling you this because of an angel named Gloria. Growing up, we had a nativity set that my mom would unwrap and put out each Christmas. It was purchased from the Sears Trim Shop, according to the label on the box, and included 15 ceramic figurines that huddled together under a wooden manger that looked about as sturdy and weather-proof as our new rental. Every year, I played with the figurines for endless hours. I made up stories where the animals talked to the shepherd, the Wise Men got lost and never showed up, and Joseph complimented Mary a lot on her ability to ride a donkey. But by far, my favorite figurine was the angel.
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| My angel-less, replacement nativity. Almost, but not quite. |
She was beautiful. Perhaps three or four inches tall, with orangey-blonde hair and shimmering gold wings. I knew her name was Gloria, because that's what was printed on the banner draped gently between her outstretched hands. I'm absolutely sure she wore a robin's-egg-blue dress, unless maybe the dress was pink. Secretly, I thought she was going to run off with the shepherd, who was the only eligible bachelor in town. Perhaps to protect her virtue, my mom unbent a Christmas ornament hook to hang Gloria from the peaked roof of the manger, where she looked over the Baby Jesus and assorted animals when I wasn't playing with her. Perched there, she seemed safe and happy and secure. Nobody was going to come evict her...at least not until Epiphany when my mom would pack everything up until the next year.
I have no idea whether that nativity made it to our new house (or any of the other new houses that would come in quick succession after that), or if it lies entombed next to a half-rotten banana peel and a wadded up sheet of newspaper 1,200 miles from where I live now. I'd like to think I remember it being brought out during those chilly winters in the house that didn't have central heat, where we got dressed for school in front of the open gas oven as our main source of warmth. I'd like to think I remember that as clearly as Gloria's shimmering wings and blue (or pink?) dress, or as clearly as I remember all the nights I wondered if the electricity would still be on when I got home from school the next day.
In 2007, the first Christmas after my mom died (and the Christmas after I got married), I stumbled upon an identical Sears nativity set on eBay. Turns out there are people looking to rid themselves of the very things I long for. I purchased it in a fit of grief-stricken midnight web surfing, and eagerly awaited its arrival. But when I opened it, I found only 11 figurines -- and no Gloria. After scouring the other posts for similar sets, I determined that beautiful, angelic Gloria must not have been original to our nativity. I didn't know where she came from or why, but her absence left both a figurative and literal hole in my holiday. Now, several years later, it has come to symbolize many things I've lost, both tangible and intangible.
Tonight, for no reason at all, I searched eBay again for Gloria. After combing through many more postings for "vintage" (read: old) nativity sets from once-thriving department stores, I came across a single listing for a set of four figurines that was an add-on to the original 1971 Sears nativity set my mother owned. (If the year is correct, she would have purchased it for the first Christmas after she got married, a coincidence that felt both bitter and sweet.) The picture on the box featured a boy playing a guitar, a bearded man carrying what appeared to be a basket of bread, an angry looking camel, and one strawberry blonde angel with gold wings and a sash bearing the name Gloria. With the hopes of pulling one small sliver of my childhood from the trash, I emailed the seller to ask if all of the figurines were present. Unfortunately, they were not -- he or she had substituted an extra donkey and a sheep for the missing angry dromedary and my beloved Gloria.
 |
| My angel in a blue dress. I was right all along. |
Since I already have a life full of music and nourishment, I let the mismatched foursome go unpurchased. It's those things that just barely keep slipping out of my grasp that I'm still searching for.
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