It's that time of year again, and here's the family decorating a tree. We went the very traditional route and spent the afternoon killing our own tree, and getting a wagon ride, and having hot apple cider with sugar cookies. And then we hauled out the box of Debris from Christmases Past, and spangled the large lump of dying vegetation in our living room with it.

I thought I'd show you my very favorite ornament.

As you can see, it's some scraps of colored paper with string and cotton glued onto it. It's Santa! He's got black stars for eyes and a big red nose and a scraggly white beard. It's cheap and badly battered and I suppose it is actually rather ugly; the kids protest every year when we drag this tattered wreck of a Santa out of the box and drape it over a few branches.

My oldest boy made this when he was in first grade, back in Utah, about 15 years ago. He was very proud of it, but then the paper was crisp and the string didn't sag quite so much and the cotton beard was full and fluffy. When Christmas was over, we stuffed it into the box with the other ornaments without too much care.

And then the next year, there it was, a bit crumpled but still intact. So we tossed it on the tree, went through another holiday season, and tossed it back in the box.

And then the next year…and the next…and the next. It survived the move to Pennsylvania, and another move to Minnesota. It got a little tattier every time, but still, despite being such a fragile and impermanent thing, it survived. That moment every year when we opened the old Christmas box and we found ol' Santa lying a crumpled heap in the corner was a kind of triumph.

I identify with that Santa. Every year we're a little more raggedy, stretched a little thinner, a step closer to disintegration, and the kids don't find us so attractive any more, not that we were exactly dashing to begin with—but look, we're still here, and still smiling.

And someday we're going to go looking for him and he'll have deteriorated beyond repair, and I'll feel a moment of loss. But damn, for a scrap of tissue and fluff, he sure has had a good run.