G L O R I A. Flying high. . Winging way to Gulfs skies of blue. Our tree awaits , ornaments too. I. One of 6 sisters. Aged 84 to 70 . 73 my spot. All alive, fighting . Needing to be heard . Endless. As for pearls on straight . Not on our tree. My mothers were. I wrote her eulogy. 20 years ago. St Vincent Ferrer on Lex between 68 and 9. Opening line. Eleanor wore pearls when she vacuumed. ….. you continue to warm cockles of our souls.
Gloria, that is so beautiful; your poem and your memories ❤️ I still have ornaments my two children made me in preschool; my son just turned the big 40 and my daughter is two years younger. I don’t set them out anymore because I don’t want anything to happen to them…
Oooh, talk about memories! When it was time to haul the decorations out, I looked at every one and remembered which ones were my mothers, grandmothers, or my fancy Aunt Kays. Aunt Kay had a style that went way beyond the earthy farm look and headed into sequined sophistication. I wont do a tree this year, but your poem helps me recall everything! ❤️
It sounds like when my family is making hallacas for Christmas. Your writing immediately took me there, and I could feel the adorable chaos when any family gets together.
Oh you brought a tear to my eye, because my husband threw away...yes! threw away ALL our decorations a few years ago when we moved house. All those lovely perfectly imperfect chains and baubles made by my children, and beautiful glass balls that belonged to my grandmother. He made a mistake, thinking it was a box of old paper, or something. I cried and cried. I love your poem. Thank you. xx Cesca
I love the imagery your writings evoke even without having first hand experience at many of them. It turns out that we do have a Six Degrees related trait for I have a Hunter Fan rotating from my ceiling for almost half a century. 🙏
My mother supervised the production of the fan pieces that were requisitioned by the military for equipment, vehicles, and ships. She was the equivalent of Alexander the Great in a skirt.
What a brilliant evocation of a Christmas past when people decorated their trees with handmade as that could be handed down as treasures. Today it’s blinking lights from CVS draping aluminum trees and cheap colored balls.
Our neighbors all have Santa blowups in their yards. Halloween? Yes. Christmas? Absolutely not. We are a traditional family in every way and I have the vintage Lennox dishes to prove it. LOL
You’d find the same thing in my city, Gloria, plastic blow-ups of Santa and his reindeer, candles, and nativity scenes. Gives the season the same feel as a theme park.
Gloria, your piece is both delightful and deeply evocative—it paints such a vivid picture of the "Great Ornament Wars" that I can almost hear the voices at that kitchen table. Yet, reading your words, I couldn’t help but reflect on something more layered, something bittersweet that feels tied to the experiences of so many women of that generation.
I can hear those same voices, speaking in German, echoing across time. Women who, after the Great War—and again after the Second—were sent back to their stovetops, needles, and threads. Stripped of their roles in the wartime workforce, they often felt unseen, unappreciated, unheard. Their identities, once tied to collective purpose, suddenly reduced and confined again. The bickering and perfectionism you describe so humorously feels, to me, like a way they reclaimed some control, a way to assert their worth where they could, even if it came at the cost of critiquing one another.
In Germany, we might say, *"die Eine gönnte der anderen das Schwarze unter den Fingernägeln nicht"*—a biting phrase that translates to “one wouldn’t even grant the other the dirt under her fingernails.” It speaks to a kind of rivalry born not of malice, but of survival, a fierce and sometimes misdirected energy in the face of an unyielding world.
Your story, in all its humor and tenderness, highlights both the joy and the underlying ache of these generational dynamics. It’s a reminder of the resilience and creativity these women carried, even when their contributions were overlooked. Thank you for such a rich, layered tribute—it stirred my imagination and my heart.
The war had wound itself down to a quiet murmur, and life was expected to return to something resembling the old normal. At least, that was the plan. My mother, who had spent the entirety of the war years as a Supervisor at the Hunter Fan Company, knew otherwise. The factory floor was her battlefield, humming with the synchronized rhythm of 200 women working 12-hour shifts, their hands nimble, their minds sharp. Together, they turned out the machinery of victory: the fans, the parts, the precise assemblage of metal that kept the engines of the war running.
When the men came home, management called her in, their voices as polished and practiced as the corporate slogans they scrawled across memos. They congratulated her on her service, her dedication. Then, as if by afterthought, they told her it was time to step aside. A deserving soldier would take her job now. It was only fair.
My mother, small in stature but towering in resolve, did not flinch. She listened, nodding politely as if weighing the request in her hands like a spare part she’d just pulled off the line. Finally, she spoke.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll leave this very minute. But so will the other 200 women who’ve worked beside me, day and night, for these past four years. No one left to train your deserving soldiers. No one to maintain continuity in your orders. No one to make the parts for those contracts you’ve already promised to deliver.”
She let the silence settle, like the end of a shift, when the machines wind down and the only sound left is the thrum of blood in your ears. She looked at them steadily, one by one, her words hovering in the air like dust motes in the slanting afternoon light.
No one left, indeed.
The men in suits shuffled their papers, adjusted their ties. Perhaps they thought of their own wives, their sisters, their mothers, who had kept the country running while they had been away. Perhaps they thought of the orders already piling up, the delivery dates already promised, the thin thread of stability that held the post-war economy together.
By the end of the day, the matter was resolved. No one left. Not her. Not the 200 women who had poured their lives into that factory.
My mother returned to the floor, her hands steady, her gaze unyielding. And though the war was over, her battle had only just been won.
Gloria, thank you for sharing this remarkable continuation of your story. Your mother’s quiet, unwavering strength left me in awe. The way she stood firm not just for herself, but for the 200 women whose livelihoods and contributions were undervalued, feels like a testament to a different kind of heroism—the kind that doesn't rely on uniforms or medals but on integrity, vision, and sheer willpower.
Reading this, I couldn’t help but feel the resonance of her courage across time. It reminds me how pivotal such moments are, how acts of resistance, no matter how subtle or direct, have the power to shift the course of lives, to rewrite what others might think of as “inevitable.”
Your mother’s story doesn’t just honor her legacy; it also sheds light on a shared history of women who fought for recognition, not through speeches or demonstrations, but through the undeniable value of their work and solidarity. She refused to be diminished, and in doing so, lifted those around her. That kind of leadership and bravery is unforgettable.
Thank you for allowing us to glimpse this extraordinary moment. It is as inspiring as it is humbling.
To many moves destroyed All of our families ornaments 😞 would love to start this tradition once again. Thank You for sharing your lovely story this morning ☕ and will reStack ASAP 💯👍❄️🌲⛄
I remember making those Christmas balls with my grandmother and great aunt! You could buy them in kits back then. You still can now, but the balls are much smaller.
Yes, they are smaller. I have 4 of their kits they never opened. They are treasured. Many times my mother and aunts would make them from scratch! That takes patience, talent, and a crazed sense of competitiveness to the extreme! LOL
G L O R I A. Flying high. . Winging way to Gulfs skies of blue. Our tree awaits , ornaments too. I. One of 6 sisters. Aged 84 to 70 . 73 my spot. All alive, fighting . Needing to be heard . Endless. As for pearls on straight . Not on our tree. My mothers were. I wrote her eulogy. 20 years ago. St Vincent Ferrer on Lex between 68 and 9. Opening line. Eleanor wore pearls when she vacuumed. ….. you continue to warm cockles of our souls.
My mother’s and her mother’s pearls are in velvet boxes tucked in one of our go-bags. They are never left behind.
Gloria, that is so beautiful; your poem and your memories ❤️ I still have ornaments my two children made me in preschool; my son just turned the big 40 and my daughter is two years younger. I don’t set them out anymore because I don’t want anything to happen to them…
Patty, put them in your lingerie drawer. You’ll see them every time you open the drawer. Christmas can come anytime.
Oooh, talk about memories! When it was time to haul the decorations out, I looked at every one and remembered which ones were my mothers, grandmothers, or my fancy Aunt Kays. Aunt Kay had a style that went way beyond the earthy farm look and headed into sequined sophistication. I wont do a tree this year, but your poem helps me recall everything! ❤️
It’s fun just dragging out all the bins and remembering Christmas through the years.
It sounds like when my family is making hallacas for Christmas. Your writing immediately took me there, and I could feel the adorable chaos when any family gets together.
Chaos is king in families! It certainly was in ours.
The best part of it!! ❤️
Oh you brought a tear to my eye, because my husband threw away...yes! threw away ALL our decorations a few years ago when we moved house. All those lovely perfectly imperfect chains and baubles made by my children, and beautiful glass balls that belonged to my grandmother. He made a mistake, thinking it was a box of old paper, or something. I cried and cried. I love your poem. Thank you. xx Cesca
You are welcome. 🙏 I would be heartbroken as well.
Reminds me of many past Christmas days.
Being the youngest, all I have are the memories, but that is surely enough!
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!
A story of family tradition and competitiveness turns dark as a cousin confiscates the goods.
Subtly the cousin crows about behavior bad; at the next murder's gathering might restoration be made?
I highly doubt it. I moved to the wild west coast. They are still imbedded in nests in the deep south.
I love the imagery your writings evoke even without having first hand experience at many of them. It turns out that we do have a Six Degrees related trait for I have a Hunter Fan rotating from my ceiling for almost half a century. 🙏
My mother supervised the production of the fan pieces that were requisitioned by the military for equipment, vehicles, and ships. She was the equivalent of Alexander the Great in a skirt.
What a brilliant evocation of a Christmas past when people decorated their trees with handmade as that could be handed down as treasures. Today it’s blinking lights from CVS draping aluminum trees and cheap colored balls.
Our neighbors all have Santa blowups in their yards. Halloween? Yes. Christmas? Absolutely not. We are a traditional family in every way and I have the vintage Lennox dishes to prove it. LOL
You’d find the same thing in my city, Gloria, plastic blow-ups of Santa and his reindeer, candles, and nativity scenes. Gives the season the same feel as a theme park.
Gloria, your piece is both delightful and deeply evocative—it paints such a vivid picture of the "Great Ornament Wars" that I can almost hear the voices at that kitchen table. Yet, reading your words, I couldn’t help but reflect on something more layered, something bittersweet that feels tied to the experiences of so many women of that generation.
I can hear those same voices, speaking in German, echoing across time. Women who, after the Great War—and again after the Second—were sent back to their stovetops, needles, and threads. Stripped of their roles in the wartime workforce, they often felt unseen, unappreciated, unheard. Their identities, once tied to collective purpose, suddenly reduced and confined again. The bickering and perfectionism you describe so humorously feels, to me, like a way they reclaimed some control, a way to assert their worth where they could, even if it came at the cost of critiquing one another.
In Germany, we might say, *"die Eine gönnte der anderen das Schwarze unter den Fingernägeln nicht"*—a biting phrase that translates to “one wouldn’t even grant the other the dirt under her fingernails.” It speaks to a kind of rivalry born not of malice, but of survival, a fierce and sometimes misdirected energy in the face of an unyielding world.
Your story, in all its humor and tenderness, highlights both the joy and the underlying ache of these generational dynamics. It’s a reminder of the resilience and creativity these women carried, even when their contributions were overlooked. Thank you for such a rich, layered tribute—it stirred my imagination and my heart.
The war had wound itself down to a quiet murmur, and life was expected to return to something resembling the old normal. At least, that was the plan. My mother, who had spent the entirety of the war years as a Supervisor at the Hunter Fan Company, knew otherwise. The factory floor was her battlefield, humming with the synchronized rhythm of 200 women working 12-hour shifts, their hands nimble, their minds sharp. Together, they turned out the machinery of victory: the fans, the parts, the precise assemblage of metal that kept the engines of the war running.
When the men came home, management called her in, their voices as polished and practiced as the corporate slogans they scrawled across memos. They congratulated her on her service, her dedication. Then, as if by afterthought, they told her it was time to step aside. A deserving soldier would take her job now. It was only fair.
My mother, small in stature but towering in resolve, did not flinch. She listened, nodding politely as if weighing the request in her hands like a spare part she’d just pulled off the line. Finally, she spoke.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll leave this very minute. But so will the other 200 women who’ve worked beside me, day and night, for these past four years. No one left to train your deserving soldiers. No one to maintain continuity in your orders. No one to make the parts for those contracts you’ve already promised to deliver.”
She let the silence settle, like the end of a shift, when the machines wind down and the only sound left is the thrum of blood in your ears. She looked at them steadily, one by one, her words hovering in the air like dust motes in the slanting afternoon light.
No one left, indeed.
The men in suits shuffled their papers, adjusted their ties. Perhaps they thought of their own wives, their sisters, their mothers, who had kept the country running while they had been away. Perhaps they thought of the orders already piling up, the delivery dates already promised, the thin thread of stability that held the post-war economy together.
By the end of the day, the matter was resolved. No one left. Not her. Not the 200 women who had poured their lives into that factory.
My mother returned to the floor, her hands steady, her gaze unyielding. And though the war was over, her battle had only just been won.
Gloria, thank you for sharing this remarkable continuation of your story. Your mother’s quiet, unwavering strength left me in awe. The way she stood firm not just for herself, but for the 200 women whose livelihoods and contributions were undervalued, feels like a testament to a different kind of heroism—the kind that doesn't rely on uniforms or medals but on integrity, vision, and sheer willpower.
Reading this, I couldn’t help but feel the resonance of her courage across time. It reminds me how pivotal such moments are, how acts of resistance, no matter how subtle or direct, have the power to shift the course of lives, to rewrite what others might think of as “inevitable.”
Your mother’s story doesn’t just honor her legacy; it also sheds light on a shared history of women who fought for recognition, not through speeches or demonstrations, but through the undeniable value of their work and solidarity. She refused to be diminished, and in doing so, lifted those around her. That kind of leadership and bravery is unforgettable.
Thank you for allowing us to glimpse this extraordinary moment. It is as inspiring as it is humbling.
To many moves destroyed All of our families ornaments 😞 would love to start this tradition once again. Thank You for sharing your lovely story this morning ☕ and will reStack ASAP 💯👍❄️🌲⛄
Karen, those ornaments hold so many precious memories and I relive them every Christmas when we gently unpack them and place them on our tree.
I’m lucky them survived all our moves.
"Loving chaos!" Egggzactly!
I had no idea just how special those ornament parties were at the time. Sweet memories.
I remember making those Christmas balls with my grandmother and great aunt! You could buy them in kits back then. You still can now, but the balls are much smaller.
Yes, they are smaller. I have 4 of their kits they never opened. They are treasured. Many times my mother and aunts would make them from scratch! That takes patience, talent, and a crazed sense of competitiveness to the extreme! LOL