By the time the twentieth Christmas arrived, the Haddons had developed their own traditions.
Carol hosted dinner every few years.
Jeanette brought desserts.
Daniel handled the outdoor lights.
And Ruth brought her gifts.
She never wrapped them.
She said wrapping paper was a waste when everyone knew what was inside.
The jewelry came in little boxes.
Mine came in glass.
Number twenty was waiting for me that year.
The cloth was green.
The jam was darker than usual.
I thanked Ruth and placed it carefully in the box I had brought for transporting it home.
Carol watched me.
"You really do take care of those jars."
I smiled.
"They're special."
She raised her eyebrows.
"Special?"
I didn't know how to explain it.
So I just nodded.
Ruth was standing near the kitchen doorway.
For a moment, I thought she was listening.
Then she turned away.
That evening, Daniel and I drove home through light snow.
The jar sat between us.
He glanced at it.
"Mom made a good batch this year."
"She always does."
He nodded.
There was something about the way he said it that made me smile.
Daniel had never been interested in the jewelry or the teasing.
He was the kind of man who noticed whether I was cold before noticing what someone else was wearing.
I loved him for that.
The following years brought changes.
Our children grew up.
They started spending Christmas with friends.
Then they moved away for work and college.
The house became quieter.
But we continued visiting Ruth.
Her eyesight weakened.
She stopped driving at night.
Still, she insisted on preparing the jam herself.
I once offered to help.
She declined.
"I can manage."
I didn't argue.
Number twenty-three arrived in a jar with a slightly chipped rim.
I noticed it immediately.
"Ruth, this one has a crack."
She examined it.
"Only on the outside."
"I can put the jam in another container."
"No."
She took the jar from me, checked the lid, and handed it back.
"It's fine."
That was Ruth.
She didn't waste things.
She didn't replace something simply because it wasn't perfect.
I carried it home.
The next Christmas, she gave me number twenty-four.
The following year, number twenty-five.
Carol received a bracelet.
Jeanette received a ring.
They compared their gifts while I held my jar.
I remember thinking that the difference had become so familiar that it hardly registered anymore.
But familiar doesn't always mean harmless.
There were times when the jokes bothered me.
Not because I wanted a bracelet.
I had my own jewelry.
I could buy a necklace if I wanted one.
It was the way Carol and Jeanette spoke about the jam.
As though I had been assigned a lower place in the family.
As though Ruth had made the decision for everyone.
Once, during dinner, Carol asked whether I planned to build a wall display out of the jars.
Jeanette laughed.
"Maybe she can open a little jam museum."
I put down my fork.
"They remind me of all the Christmases we've shared."
Neither woman answered.
Ruth, however, looked directly at me.
Then she returned to cutting her food.
I couldn't tell whether she approved of my answer.
I couldn't tell much about Ruth at all.
A few years later, Daniel and I visited her on a Sunday afternoon.
She was sitting near the window with a basket of old photographs.
I helped her sort them.
There were pictures of Daniel as a little boy.
Carol in a school dress.
Jeanette holding a birthday cake.
Her husband standing beside a tractor.
I recognized the faces.
But there were other photographs I had never seen.
Ruth kept them in a separate envelope.
She moved that envelope beneath the others when I reached for it.
I didn't ask.
We talked about the garden instead.
Before we left, she gave me a small jar of jam to take home.
It wasn't Christmas.
There was no number on the lid.
I thanked her.
She watched me place it in my bag.
"Keep it upright."
"I will."
That evening, I told Daniel about the photographs.
He said his mother had always kept old family things.
"She doesn't like people going through everything."
I accepted that explanation.
It seemed reasonable.
The years continued.
Number twenty-eight.
Number twenty-nine.
Number thirty.
By then, the jars had taken up nearly the entire basement shelf.
I added another wooden board beneath the first one.
I cleaned each jar after finishing the jam.
I dried the lids separately.
Then I placed them back on the glass.
The numbers faced outward.
I liked how orderly they looked.
Sometimes I wondered what would happen to them when I was gone.
It was a silly thought.
I was still relatively young.
But I imagined one of our children finding them someday and asking why their grandmother had given me so many jars.
I hoped they would understand that I had loved receiving them.
Even when I didn't understand them.
Daniel and I grew older together.
His hair turned gray.
Mine did too.
We had our routines.
Coffee in the morning.
A walk after dinner.
Phone calls with the children.
Visits to Ruth whenever we could manage them.
Ruth became more fragile.
Her hands shook when she lifted a cup.
She needed help getting up from her favorite chair.
But she still knew the exact date of Christmas.
And she still knew which jar belonged to me.
Number thirty-five.
That year, Carol received a gold necklace.
Jeanette received a pair of earrings.
I received plum jam.
Carol looked at the jar and smiled.
"Thirty-five years. I hope you have room for another one."
"I've made room."
She laughed.
I laughed too.
But I noticed Ruth watching us.
Her eyes moved from Carol to me.
Then she lowered her gaze to the table.
For some reason, I remembered that look.
It stayed with me long after the Christmas decorations were put away.
The next year, Ruth didn't feel well enough to prepare dinner.
We visited her instead.
She was sitting at the kitchen table.
There was a small notebook beside her.
I asked whether she needed anything.
She shook her head.
Then she reached into a cupboard and brought out my jar.
Number thirty-six.
I looked at it.
"You still managed to make it."
"Of course."
Her answer was quiet.
But firm.
I thanked her.
She placed one hand over mine for a moment.
Her fingers were cold.
"Keep them together, Linda."
I looked at her.
"What?"
"The jars."
I smiled.
"I do."
She nodded.
Then she pulled her hand away.
I thought she was simply pleased that I hadn't thrown them out.
I didn't understand why she had said it that way.
Looking back, I wish I had asked her.
But there were so many things I wish I had asked Ruth.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: Ruth Was Getting Older, and the Last Few Christmases Began to Feel Different Even Though the Jar Never Changed
For Forty Christmases, I Thought I Was the Only One Who Didn’t Understand What Ruth Was Giving Me
Part 2 of 20
