One Rudolph

After two and a half hours, my hired helper Nathan (otherwise known as Sloth) and I had managed to hang only one of three reindeer, the newest, my Christmas gift from my nephew. It now takes the honored spot of threshhold art.
This Rudolph is modeled on another that my father used at the head of a three-reindeer team every Christmas throughout my childhood and youth. Perched on a large rock overlooking the creek and bridge into our driveway in Crestline, for three nights before Christmas each year, my father sat in a hand-crafted sleigh pulled by three plywood reindeer lifting toward the sky. He made the reindeer, and my mother painted them.

Families drove by or, more often, parked and walked up to the bridge, where Mother pulled the child into the light. She said something like, "Rebecca, come onto the bridge so you can see Santa." After a moment's pause, Daddy would call out, "Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas, Rebecca!" The children's surprise was palpably magic. Every child in Birmingham believed the department store Santas were helpers, but the one on Memory Lane was real.

Some years ago, my father sold my childhood house. Years later, my niece met the owners at a party, and when they said there were two reindeer in the basement, she told me. They're now mine. I want to put them up, but I haven't yet been able to figure out where. The problem with loving art is limited wall space, alas. I am still thinking on it.
Meanwhile I shall think of my nephew every time I walk down my steps and leave the house. I love him for his thoughtful gift and his respect for family tradition.