Christmas gives me the blues. I miss the magic of childhood Christmases spent with my siblings, and I miss the magic of Christmas mornings I spent with my young children. I miss family and friends who have passed away, and the special Christmas traditions we had. Because nothing stays the same, nostalgia can be heart-wrenching.

So, I’m weaving some new traditions into some old ones.

The Nutcracker of the Past

When I was in my twenties, my mother-in-law took me to my first ballet, along with my two sisters-in-law. It was December, so of course, we went to The Nutcracker. I loved it. For two hours enchanting music, graceful dancing, sparkling costumes, and magical sets swept me away to another world. Attending The Nutcracker with my mother-in-law became a tradition for a handful of years.

This year I took my twelve-year-old granddaughter, Clara, to see The Nutcracker, her first ballet. My mother-in-law would be happy to know I’m reviving her tradition. If life were A Christmas Carol, my mother-in-law would have been Fred, the ever-cheerful nephew of Ebenezer Scrooge. She knew how to keep the spirit of Christmas in her heart all year long and how to rise above characters like Scrooge.

The Nutcracker of the Present

Clara and I were dressed in the past and present. I wore a pair of old garnet earrings given to me by a friend, a black-and-red plaid sweater given to me by another friend, and a string of pearls given to me by my mother. I carried a black purse my sister had sent me. Clara wore a black skirt I’d bought her, black leggings, and a cream-colored sweater with a brown geometric design that her other grandmother had worn when she was young. We were wrapped in the beauty of the present and the comfort of the past.

The ballet started at two o’clock, so we left the house at one o’clock. Because it’s a short drive to Symphony Hall, we arrived early. Happily, we discovered a foosball table in the lobby. This might be an odd place for a game table, but Symphony Hall is next to a college hockey arena. (An air hockey game would’ve been more appropriate, but they are noisy, like the ear-splitting clack-clack of a pickleball game.) There was no foosball table when I went to the ballet with my mother-in-law. But she would have approved. She liked quiet adventures. In her seventies she painted her nails with canary-yellow and key-lime-pie-green nail polish. She changed the spelling of her first name. She asked me to take her to see Willie Nelson. She went to see The Pirates of the Caribbean with me.

Pre-Ballet Fun

My granddaughter reached the foosball table first. She dropped the ball down the side chute and pushed and pulled on the handles. “Want to play?” I asked. “Sure,” she said. A small smile tickled the corners of her mouth.

Dressed in our semi-elegant, mostly black clothes and coats, we stood opposite one another. We cranked handles and spun our foosball players. Trash talking was minimal. We focused, each of us giving 110 percent to our plastic, featureless foosball athletes. The game went back and forth with the lead changing many times, but in the end I prevailed by one goal. I wanted to do a Chariots of Fire victory stride, but well … I was wearing pearls.

It was after 1:30, but the ushers still weren’t taking tickets. I wondered why there were so few people in the lobby. But then a ship came through the canal, and the staff, Clara, and I walked out onto a balcony to watch it glide into the harbor. No matter how many vessels we locals see enter the canal, we never tire of watching them chug under the lift bridge and into the harbor to take on a load of cargo. After the ship passed by, we all returned to the warmth of the lobby.

The ushers still weren’t taking tickets, and I got a strange feeling. After I talked to one of the staff, I found out the ballet actually started at three o’clock. Clara and I had been an hour early. We had time to whittle away, so we explored the lower level of the building. We sat in lobby chairs and watched people walk by. We checked out The Nutcracker merchandise. I bought Clara a light-up wand made of optical fibers and myself a pair of socks decorated with nutcrackers.

At Last

Finally, the auditorium doors opened, ushers handed us programs, and we found our seats.

Shortly after three o’clock, the lights in the auditorium dimmed, the orchestra began to play, and the curtain rose. Pirouettes and leaps, jumps and high kicks all performed by dancers in colorful costumes chased my blues away. Some of the old tradition of the ballet I’d seen with my mother-in-law remained, but it had a new twist.

Instead of being set in the Victorian-style home where Clara’s family and Drosselmeyer gather on Christmas Eve, the set was transformed into a train station. The ballet was still set in the early 1900s, but the dancers, other than the lead ballet performers, were dressed as street vendors, newsies, travelers, lumberjacks, and gingerbread cookies. At first, I missed the version I’d seen with my mother-in-law. But the ballet was so good. And clinging to the past too tightly brings a sense of melancholy. Nothing stays the same. So, I let it go and wove the night’s new traditions in with the old.

After rounds of curtain calls and clapping until our palms hurt, Clara and I exited the auditorium. We left the bright lights of the lobby behind and walked out into the dark, cold night. We stuffed our chilled hands into our mittens, but beneath our stylish coats, our hearts were warm.

And for a while my Christmas blues were banished. Maybe next year we will go to the symphony or a Christmas play, then the following year back to The Nutcracker. It’s good to look to the future.

Victoria Lynn Smith writes fiction, essays and articles. For more visit writingnearthelake.org.