My Little Drummer Boy and His King

I have been collecting nutcrackers since I was a little girl. It is a tradition our family started when I was around the age of six, maybe earlier since some of the nutcrackers have been reported missing. So some of them are fairly old. And I love my nutcrackers. But each year when I take them out of storage it is a little depressing, because each year, without fail, at least one of them has something broken off. It is usually something they are holding or a weaker piece added to their base. But this year we had the worst injury in years.

He is my Little Drummer Boy. This is his twenty first Christmas with our family, and he has been showing some wear in recent years. His nose is worn down and his hair is discolored. But he is still as proud as the day we bought him. Even now. I unwrapped his package the other day and, to my utter horror, his foot fell off, followed by the base he stands on. My Little Drummer Boy can no longer stand up. But somehow his face looked more determined, his hands holding onto his drumsticks poised over the drum in front of him ready to go. He has never played a note as his arms are stationary, but he's ready none the less. And I could not bring myself to deny him his rightful place in the nutcracker line that he has so proudly held for twenty one years, so I placed him lovingly down on the puff of cotton snow mom had laid down to protect the counter tops, in his rightful spot with his friends.

My mom buys me at least one nutcracker each year, and as I have gotten older they have gotten more and more interesting. Like, this year she got me the pirate, but when I opened the boxes I realized there was a second pirate that we had forgotten about. They don't look alike but they make a wonderful pair. And there are the two really tacky ones, the king and queen, who have to be next to each other every year. The queen is a year older than the king, the king being the next year's addition and a perfect match to her colors. But my favorite is the first in a string of kings. We bought him in 1986. He is very, very small and has a little gold cloth crown. He's very simple. But I remember - even though I was only six at the time - picking him out over the rest of the nutcrackers because he was the king of the nutcrackers. And he was always displayed rather prominently, even after the second king came in. My collection has grown to sizes that limit the display options, so he isn't so prominent anymore. But he still stands out over the rest... mainly because he is, by far, the smallest of my collection. But I still like to think he's their ruler. And every year, when I unwrap him and see his little face, I think he believes he is their ruler, too.

Those nutcrackers are important to my family, and each year when we find the one that broke we are all visibly upset by it. Mom moves quickly to repair it, something I believe is a leftover from when I was little and would cry when a nutcracker broke. But each and every nutcracker holds a story of its purchase, a memory of my childhood and of my family being together. The ones I didn't choose hold the thought with them that my mother went to great lengths to find just the right nutcracker that year.

And when my parents are gone, those nutcrackers will remain, each year unwrapping a flood of memories that I had forgotten since the Christmas before. They will always be there in those little wooden faces.

That thought became strong the first Christmas I celebrated without my childhood friend, our dog Poochanne who died at the age of fifteen. I was unwrapping each nutcracker lovingly and placing them in line when I unwrapped Poochanne's nutcracker. Her nutcracker is a little guy in green, the Duck Hunter. The Duck Hunter stands smiling in his nutcracker way with a duck at the end of a string. His rifle has long since been thrown away because when Poochanne was teething as a puppy she thought the rifle was just perfect. So all these years the Duck Hunter has been without his rifle, and when I look at him I see Poochanne as a puppy, healthy, playful, and loving, just the way I wanted to remember her. It replaces the memories of her covered in tumors and blind that were the last I had of her. And because of this I will probably never replace his rifle.

I take out the little king and remember standing in Holiday Tree and Trim, a year round Christmas store in the town in New Jersey that I grew up in, my mom bending down to tell me about how he was the most important nutcracker because he was their king. And as simple and plain as he is, I looked at him in awe then. And I still do. I have nutcrackers wearing rabbit fur hats, others with flags, one dressed as Santa, another like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. But I can never help myself when I pull him out. Every year, out comes the king and I hold him up to my parents and say, "Hail to the king!"

Some of them are colored funny. The Doctor is wearing glasses. There is Father Time with his stern eyes. The two with creepy people faces instead of nutcracker faces. The Nutcracker Suite. The short fat one that never seems to blend in well. The one with the flag. The two pirates. The Flagman. The Viking Warrior with his ax. The Duck Hunter. The Queen and her young King. The Tower Guard with his lantern. Santa Clause. The Little Drummer Boy...

They are the meaning of Christmas to me. They are the collective memories of every year of my life, waking up things I would have long forgotten without all those little painted eyes looking up into mine. They are the ones that await the nutcrackers that haven't been built yet and the memories not yet made. All straight backed with unyielding eyes and big, white teeth. Somehow, when I see them, I feel whole again. Proud. And if every Christmas from here on out holds not a gift for me, I'll know those nutcrackers are there still, with their own gifts that can never be replaced, bought, or traded in. And for them I am thankful.