Christmas Cards Were the First Facebook
The wooden double doors from the kitchen into the dining room of my childhood home were louvered. Always open and pushed against the formal space’s cobalt and peach wallpaper, the dark stained dividers were barely noticeable most of the year.
Yet every December, they became a focal point as their niches filled up with Christmas cards. Winter scenes splashed with glitter, crèches under the Star of Bethlehem, tannenbaums, tomtegubbe, and well wishes in red and green calligraphy came from right next door and the other side of the country.
The scenes represented a lifetime of connections—my parents’ realtives, friends, and colleagues—from their childhood home of Bridgeport, Connecticut to the kin in San Bernardino. We never had enough slots for all of the good cheer.
The names on the envelopes built our homes, played pinochle with Dad every Friday night, came early to set up and stayed late to clean up after Mom’s parties—those holiday open houses and summer picnics that saw 75, 80, even 100 people walk between that kitchen and dining room.
The louvered doors were always open because the first floor of the house was an unbroken current around a central staircase. It was designed for get-togethers, for drinks and hors d’oeuvres, to keep the flow encircling and eddying.
I loved my parents’ circle. Most of the gang never left the Bridgeport area, so they always mixed in interesting ways. A new neighbor was, surprisingly, a classmate of an old friend. An old coworker was, it turned out, the cousin of a cousin’s new wife.
As time went on, and some people did move, some cards included photos and newsletters. They unveiled their new house, the latest vacation, or the kids growing up.
I recall one particular, beautiful family, whose annual jam-packed, four-color, international bulletin always got an eye roll from everyone who read it. Then that same family had a rough year and we were surprised and sympathetic when their letter grew honest and vulnerable.
I knew everyone that contributed to our rack of correspondence. They came to my sister’s and my first communions. They came to our high school graduations. I took their coats and they handed me fivers, squeezed my cheeks, listened and were interested in my stories.
They gave me advice as I went off to college. So many are gone now and I never got the chance to say a proper thank you. Their love provided a tremendous foundation from which I still draw strength.
I’ve written about how we serve ourselves better on social media when we keep our expertise and public writing focused on a Facebook Page or similar professional account. The Internet would be a far more civil and helpful place if everyone kept their comments to their areas of study and vocation.
Alternatively, we might think of our private Facebook Timelines and other personal accounts as modern Christmas cards. While posts can’t replace intimate friendship, they represent an honest effort to remain connected.
Christmas cards and family newsletters prepared us for desktop publishing and blogging. They too inspired creativity in some and the Fear Of Missing Out (FOMO) in others.
You can read someone else’s Facebook or Instagram post as a barometer of your own life and a reason to feel sorry for yourself, but that becomes harder to do when you think of posts as messages from friends.
Personal posts, when we create and receive them in the right way, are small attempts to share one’s life in a world where connection is always hard to find. You can’t envy a message that someone chose to share with you.