For years, the bells remained hidden. Forgotten at the bottom of the cedar chest, buried beneath a red plaid wool stadium blanket, two angora collars, several pieces of handmade lace, and my grandparents’ wedding photo, their silence was ensured.
Because the lid to the chest was kept locked, I needed help each birthday and Christmas to open it, so that I could retrieve the small, beaded bag that held my growing collection of silver dollars.
One year, I asked permission to look through the other treasures hidden away in the depths of the chest. Out they came: the blanket, the lace, the photos. As I moved a small box of jewelry, I heard a faintly musical jingle. Pulling at the sound, I lifted up a cracked leather strap with a dozen or more bells attached. Delighted, I gave the strap a shake, and then another.
Hearing the racket, my mother came to see what I was doing. When she saw the bells, she grew nostalgic. The harness strap and bells had belonged to her grandfather. They didn’t have a sleigh, but they did have a homemade box sled, and they had a horse. During the horse’s respite from field labor, he contributed to winter festivities: pulling children (and the occasional adult) along the roads. Despite the sled’s plain, homespun nature, my mother confessed she felt like the fanciest lady in the world during those rides: transported, for a time, into a world of elegance and beauty.