Fun fact: When I was 21, I fell madly in love and set up housekeeping with someone who celebrated Christmas—something I had never done up to that point in my life. As a kid being raised in a traditional Jewish home, it was all about Hanukkah, aka the Festival of Lights, and while my sister and I were well aware that others had trees to decorate, stockings to fill and midnight mass to attend, we were left with eight nights of lighting the menorah, saying our prayers and hoping to get something other than new socks and underwear by the time it was over. To be fair, my mother bent over backwards to make Hanukkah festive, and our nightly gifts did amp up as the candle count grew, but still… our gentile friends (IMHO) seemed to have it made in comparison.

Even though the story of Hanukkah is replete with vivid characters, an engrossing tale and a “miracle,” there was no real feeling of magic in the air. No adorable elves in our story. No cookies sprinkled with glittery sugar and (aside from Uncle Izzy) no fat man promising to visit, via the chimney or any other entryway. Trust me, a potato pancake is no substitute for plum pudding. Just sayin’. I didn’t make the connection then, but in retrospect, Mom was a little envious of her non-Jewish friends too, and she busied herself every year crafting all sorts of adorable Christmas gee-gaws for them, including homemade stockings, ornaments and centerpieces that delighted her pals and fulfilled her never ending desire to paint things gold.

Although she had spent years asking why I “refused to date Jewish girls,” she accepted the fact that I had chosen a mate who loved Christmas and immediately went into hyper-drive making decorations to please my other half, with whom I spent 18 years trimming trees. Sadly, that part of the story ended more than 20 years ago. I have not picked up an ornament since then, but have schlepped the boxes of memories with me for decades. Of course, Dharma loves Christmas as much as the next dog, and “Santa Paws” visits her each year, filling her stocking with treats, but I reverted to buying myself socks and underwear, filling the void, munching on Latkes and sighing out loud. Oh, right—the boxes.

All told, I counted 16 cartons in the garage, each one brimming with Mom-made stuff, none of which I had even looked at for decades, but have had a hard time letting go of, for obvious reasons. “No time like the present,” I wheezed to the pup, and opened them up, each one a veritable treasure chest of days gone by. Ceramic trees bedecked with doves, a complete Christmas village (ice rink and all)  emerged, along with a light-up church (not really my style) with carolers and thousands of lights, hundreds of ornaments and plenty of nightmarish broken glass and broken dreams. Snow globes, nutcrackers and delicate not-very-Jewish angels were among the casualties, and I started to sift through it all, separating wheat from chaff. Dozens of tiny mice ornaments squeaked at me (each one signed “love, Mom”), and the memories flooded my reverie. But my resolve remained. Photographing the process was cathartic, and thankfully, my 30-year-old daughter said “yes” when asked if she wanted the heirlooms that I didn’t have the heart to simply give away.

I’ll be packing it all back up for the last time soon enough and shipping the lion’s share to her; she has plenty of time to make new memories with a family of her own, passing the torch (as it were) to a new generation who will (hopefully) appreciate the amount of love and care that Mom put into each and every glittery bauble.

While not quite ready to completely divest, I’m planning to hang on to a few things. My “Star Trek” ornaments that I had completely forgotten about (for instance) are apparently now worth something on eBay, as are the “Star Wars” characters that light up and talk. One or two of the hand-beaded ornaments will remain behind, along with Santas on spaceships and the pearly ceramic tree. I have managed to donate some of the goodies to those less fortunate than myself and find new homes for others. But I’ve realized that even though I’ll be lighting the candles on Mom’s menorah this year, it’s OK to hang on to a few things for just a little while more. “Not yet,” I thought to myself, whittling it down to one or three boxes. “Maybe next year.”