I married into the Haddon family in December 1985.
I was twenty-four years old.
My husband, Daniel, was the only person who could make me feel completely comfortable in a room full of people who seemed to have known one another forever.
His mother, Ruth, was a different matter.
She wasn't unkind.
That was what made her difficult to read.
She rarely raised her voice, rarely offered an opinion unless someone asked, and never seemed interested in making herself the center of attention.
She had spent most of her life in the countryside.
Her husband died when she was fifty, leaving her with three children and a house that needed repairs.
She managed everything herself.
She raised chickens, sold eggs, kept a vegetable garden, and saved things other people threw away.
A piece of string could be useful again.
A cracked bowl could hold something.
A worn coat could last another winter if someone knew how to sew.
Ruth knew how.
Daniel used to say his mother could make a dollar last longer than most people could make a hundred.
I believed him.
The first Christmas I spent with the Haddons, I arrived carrying a pie and a small package for Ruth.
I had wrapped it carefully.
Inside was a soft wool scarf.
Nothing expensive.
I had saved for it because I wanted her to know I appreciated being welcomed into her family.
She thanked me.
Then she placed the scarf over the back of her chair and disappeared into the kitchen.
I didn't think much of it.
The gifts came after dinner.
Ruth sat beside the fireplace with a cardboard box at her feet.
Carol, Daniel's older sister, sat on one side of her.
Jeanette sat on the other.
I was near the end of the sofa, holding a cup of coffee.
Ruth reached into the box.
Carol received a gold bracelet.
Jeanette opened a small velvet case containing pearl earrings.
Both women smiled.
They compared the gifts and immediately started talking about where they would wear them.
Then Ruth reached beneath the tissue paper again.
She pulled out a mason jar.
It had a little square of patterned cloth over the lid, tied with a thin piece of string.
She handed it to me.
"Here you are, Linda."
I looked at the jar.
Dark purple jam filled it almost to the top.
A small number had been painted on the metal lid.
One.
I smiled.
"Thank you, Ruth."
Carol looked at the jar and laughed.
"Well, Linda, you've officially joined the family."
I looked at her.
She was still smiling.
"Mom has a special Christmas collection for you."
Jeanette laughed too.
I laughed along because I didn't know what else to do.
Daniel put his hand on my knee.
I could tell he felt embarrassed.
But I wasn't upset.
Not then.
I was twenty-four, and my own mother lived several states away.
I had missed her terribly during the first few months of my marriage.
Ruth's little jar felt like something she had prepared especially for me.
I took it home.
The next morning, I opened it.
The smell of plums filled our small kitchen.
It was delicious.
Not too sweet.
Not too thick.
It tasted like something made slowly, without rushing.
I spread some on toast and ate it standing beside the sink.
I remember thinking that Ruth had given me something she had made with her own hands.
That meant more to me than an expensive gift would have.
I washed the empty jar when we finished it.
I kept it.
I didn't know why.
Perhaps I thought Ruth might reuse it.
Perhaps I simply liked the little painted number.
Whatever the reason, I placed it on a shelf in our basement.
And then another Christmas arrived.
By then, Daniel and I had settled into married life.
We had a little more furniture, a better car, and enough money to stop worrying about every grocery bill.
Christmas Eve was still spent at Ruth's house.
The same dining table.
The same old curtains.
The same smell of cinnamon coming from the kitchen.
Ruth gave Carol a new necklace.
Jeanette received a small gold pendant.
Then she handed me another jar.
Number two.
Carol glanced at it.
"At least Mom is consistent."
I smiled.
"She certainly is."
Jeanette asked Ruth whether she had considered making something different.
"Maybe strawberry this year?"
Ruth shook her head.
"Linda prefers the plums."
I looked up.
I had never told her that.
Not directly.
I liked plum jam, but I didn't remember mentioning it.
Ruth simply picked up her teacup.
The conversation moved on.
I took the jar home.
And I ate it.
By the third Christmas, I had stopped wondering what my gift would be.
I knew.
A mason jar.
A piece of cloth.
A number.
I began looking for the new number as soon as Ruth handed it to me.
Number three.
Number four.
Number five.
The years passed.
Daniel and I bought a larger house.
We had children.
There were school photographs, birthday parties, broken toys, hospital visits, and ordinary arguments about money.
Through all of it, the Christmas jam continued.
Sometimes Ruth used a red cloth.
Sometimes blue.
Once, the string was replaced with a narrow ribbon.
But the number was always there.
Carol and Jeanette continued receiving jewelry.
The gifts became more expensive as the years went on.
Carol received a gold watch for her tenth Christmas gift.
Jeanette received a pair of diamond earrings.
I received number ten.
Carol held the jar up and inspected it.
"Ten years. That's quite a record."
Jeanette shook her head.
"Mom, you could at least change the flavor."
Ruth looked at her.
"Linda likes this one."
I remember looking at Ruth across the room.
She wasn't smiling.
She wasn't trying to make a joke.
She simply seemed certain.
I thanked her.
And I meant it.
That year, I carried the jar home in both hands because the lid had become slightly loose.
I placed it beside the others.
I had started arranging them in the basement.
The empty jars were clean and dry.
I lined them up on a wooden shelf, with the painted numbers facing outward.
One through ten.
I liked seeing them together.
They looked almost like a little record of my marriage.
Every year represented another Christmas spent with Daniel's family.
Another year of children growing taller.
Another year of Ruth standing in her kitchen, making sure everyone had enough to eat.
I didn't think of the jars as valuable.
They were just mine.
That was enough.
Sometimes, when I cleaned the basement, I would run a cloth over the glass.
I never threw any away.
Daniel noticed.
"You're keeping all those?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
He looked at the shelf.
"Why?"
I shrugged.
"I don't know. I like them."
He smiled.
"Then keep them."
That was all.
Years went by.
Ruth grew older, but she never stopped making the jam.
Her hands became thinner.
Her steps became slower.
She sometimes sat at the kitchen table while Carol and Jeanette helped prepare Christmas dinner.
But when it was time for the gifts, she still reached for the jar with my name in mind.
Number fifteen.
Number twenty.
Number twenty-five.
I stopped counting the jewelry Carol and Jeanette received.
I didn't compare the value of their presents with mine.
At least, that was what I told myself.
But there were moments when I wondered whether Ruth saw me as a real daughter-in-law or simply as the woman who had married her son.
I never asked.
I was afraid of making something uncomfortable that had never been openly cruel.
And I had Daniel.
He loved me.
He made sure I knew I belonged in our home.
That was what mattered.
One Christmas, after Ruth handed me another jar, Carol made a comment about needing a bigger basement shelf.
I laughed.
But later that night, I went downstairs and moved the jars closer together.
There was room for more.
I didn't know how many more.
I only knew I wasn't going to throw them away.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: The Number on Every Lid Kept Changing, While the Women Around Ruth Never Thought to Ask What It Meant
For Forty Christmases, I Thought I Was the Only One Who Didn’t Understand What Ruth Was Giving Me
Part 1 of 20
