Decades ago, when I was a youngster, I loved this time of year for many reasons. One was helping my dear mother prepare Christmas cards for mailing.
Doing so was one of the few times I didn’t have to compete with my two brothers and two sisters for the job. It was a different story at cookie-baking time, however.
If my recollection is correct, I had a monopoly on assisting Mom with the cards. She was a watercolor artist and took personal pride in selecting certain cards for specific individuals or families. Mom was very particular, even when picking out boxes of Christmas cards.
My juvenile brain interpreted selecting and sending the cards as an extra-special event. I sensed Mom felt that way, too.
Our mother had lovely handwriting, and she carefully penned people’s names and addresses on the envelopes. It was beyond my 10-year-old’s comprehension that the recipients would question the amateurish writing of a child’s attempt at addressing envelopes. Plus, Mom wanted to ensure the cards were delivered.
I assisted by sticking on the return address labels and, if you can believe it, licking and affixing the three-cent stamps to the upper right-hand corner of dozens of envelopes. Perhaps that’s the reason my siblings didn’t want to help. I can assure you the envelope glue wasn’t flavored.
The joyous satisfaction of assisting our mother in this annual seasonal endeavor overrode the yucky taste on my tongue. I may have sneaked a piece of peppermint candy halfway through the project, though. I popped in another piece after licking all the envelopes and ensuring they stayed closed.
Mom stuck a folded, handwritten letter into a few cards. Those went to relatives and friends who lived hundreds of miles away. It was the thing to do before email and Zoom.
As we slid the cards into the proper envelopes, I got a lump in my throat. I didn’t understand why, but I knew completing the project gave me great joy. I now know, of course, that feeling as contentment.
The final phase of this enterprise was to place the stack of addressed, stamped, and sealed envelopes into the mailbox on our front porch. That’s right. The mail carrier walked up our sidewalk to the porch to deliver the mail.
To make it easier for him, we sorted the Christmas cards by state and later by zip code. We also bound our prized season’s greetings with rubber bands.
Partnering with my mother gave me a sense of responsibility and achievement. She was always grateful for any help her five offspring provided.
Of course, the flip side of the joy of sending holiday cards was receiving them. My siblings and I enjoyed sorting through the cards that had arrived in our mailbox while we were at school.
Our parents gave the cards they received a special place for all to see, and to help decorate our modest brick bungalow for the holidays. They taped a sheet of festive red paper to the inside of the wooden front door, and the five of us took turns taping the cards to the door.
By Christmas, the door was either filled or nearly so with greetings from friends and relatives far and near. With the many colors, designs, and sequins on the cards, the once plain brown door now complemented our lavishly decorated Christmas tree as the centerpieces of our living room.
The cursive, printed, and typed notes to our family stood stacked in a pile on the antique table in the front window. I would have to ask my mother to read some of the scribbly handwriting.
I appreciate all the electronic and emailed Christmas wishes we receive during the holiday season now. But they can’t compare to the nostalgia of sending and receiving Christmas cards. That was a special kind of love.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
Roadkill Crossing 
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