Tinsel to tinsel, memories to memories.
Lindsey Richards Barnes
This past year, I’ve become a little more reflective about the past. Particularly, I’ve been thinking about the many ways I’ve approached holidays through my life, and it is divided into seven distinct phases.
I know the first phase mostly from old black and white photos. It appears that the level of magic and enjoyment during the years of my age from zero to 10 depended heavily on the amount of tinsel on the tree. There are photos where the tree is more a structural support for the tinsel rather than the tinsel decorating the tree. It was a wonderful time with gifts, delicious food and sparkly lights. Does life get better than that? I certainly didn’t think so.
The second phase was just plain weird. It was the 11–20 years old phase and honestly, it was just all boys and books. New dating awkwardness and gift-giving between tweens and teens occupied my thoughts. I just remember the first day back to school after Christmas was a huge show-and-tell. What did you get? Invariably, I would be happiest about getting the books on my list. Perfect. But if the current gangly boyfriend gave a gift that made others at school a little jealous, that was good too. This was a shallow time in my life, so don’t judge me please.
The third phase was heady stuff indeed. From 21 to 30 years of age was my introduction to independent holidays. Friendsgiving gatherings for people that couldn’t take the time to go home for the holidays were a brilliant idea. I had a small pine tree festooned with red yarn and tinsel in my first apartment. It was the Virginia equivalent of a Paris attic apartment, being a third-floor walk-up above a law office, a tiny 20’ x 20’ box with a kitchenette and bathroom. I hung lights, wrapped tiny homemade gifts and reveled in my independence. It didn’t matter that I barely had a teapot and a lamp, it was all mine. I could not have been more content.
From the ages of 31 to 40 years old, I hit my “Martha Stewart” phase with a glue gun and complete determination. I tried so hard to be the ultimate hostess, with the most delicious food, the cleverest holiday decorations, the coziest fireplace and the most delightful gifts. It nearly killed me. The pressure to get every category of life into a magazine-worthy status all while working 60 hours a week created tremendous pressure. I tried. God knows, I tried to meet Miss Martha on her own terms but I had to cry uncle. Martha kicked my butt.
First of all, I have never used so much sage in my life. Sage was made into wreaths, shoved under turkey skin to flavor and decorate, tied with bows on packages, fried as crisps and hung to dry in the kitchen. I suspect Martha had shares in a commercial herb farm because herbs were essential in ways I’d never dreamed. Sage and rosemary, both of which I still grow, were my new best friends, along with antique ornaments, serving platters, bees wax candles and freshly polished antique tables. This phase would have gone smoother, and I would have felt much better about myself, had I been able to delegate or get help but that didn’t seem to be the Martha way. I should have known that it was only going to be successful if I did it the Molly way instead, or hired 15 talented people to do it the Martha way.
That’s when I hit stage five. That’s the “wait a minute” phase that hits from 41 to 50 years old. That’s when it starts to dawn on you that Black Friday is stupid, putting gifts on credit cards is stupid, overextending yourself to the point of exhaustion is stupid and maybe, just maybe, all this stuff is not necessary to our enjoyment of the holiday season. I started pushing back, started saying no, started trimming down to the essentials. I started to prioritize my own sanity and stress. Do we need to make 10 different kinds of cookies or if I just make the two that everyone loves, isn’t that enough? Wait, don’t bakeries make fabulous cookies? We can subcontract out the cookie making. Done.
Sliding into stage six, where I worked to make magical yet simple moments. It’s the 51 to 60 years of age and simplicity reigns supreme amongst my values. I will remember the Christmas eve my grandmother told me all about dating the first guy in the county to have a car while sitting in front of the wood stove in the kitchen. I won’t remember fancy restaurant dinners because they just don’t have the warmth and love that my grandmother’s old kitchen did. Attention is the greatest gift we can give our loved ones. Children won’t remember this year’s cool shiny plastic thing, but they will remember learning to bake cookies with their family. Experiences stick. Things fade.
Now I have arrived at stage seven, which like phase one, is complete magic. Phases 2–6 taught me a very important lesson. True holiday magic happens in spite of us trying to manufacture it. It is not necessary for you to do anything extraordinary. Just enjoy. Be a child totally in open-mouthed awe of twinkling lights. I want to share stories in front of the fire. I want to snuggle on the sofa with my family. I want hot cocoa with miniature marshmallows. I want all the tinsel. I want so much tinsel, even Dolly Parton herself would suggest some restraint. Let’s get festive!
I wish you and yours all the happiness your heart can hold during this holiday season. May 2026 be full of joy and good health, and may it fulfill all your loveliest dreams.
The story above first appeared in our November / December 2025 issue. For more like it subscribe today or log in with your active BRC+ Membership. Thank you for your support!