How a reduced-to-clear cherub became priceless over the years, an important part of the memories and magic of Christmas.

As a young married couple Ron and I bought a gold-coloured celluloid angel to adorn the top of our Christmas tree. She came from a reduced-to-clear bin in a local department store, with a price of 25 cents. Our children, Steve, 3, Carol, 4, and Joan, 5, were agog at her shimmering beauty held triangularly erect by a cardboard underskirt. She had a gentle face, yellow hair and a pipe cleaner halo. She was "just beautiful" they breathed when we brought her home.

Ron and I didn't plan to keep the angel. She was only a stopgap until we could afford a more elegant treetop decoration-or so we thought. Each December, however, Ron placed the ornament we named the Bargain-Bin Angel at the top of our balsam fir tree, while three children with glowing faces watched.

The angel watched, too. During the lean years she looked on as Ron and I worried that the gifts we could afford would prove disappointments to the children. She'd seen our relief when our trio happily accepted our offerings as if they were state-of-the-art. We assumed she witnessed Santa's many visits. Her smile may even have broadened a bit as she cast her golden glow down on his kindly deeds.

But not all our Christmas's were merry and bright. One year my father passed away in mid-December. His death left an excruciating ache in my soul. Soldiering on, Ron and I put up a tree for the kids' sake and tried to make the best of a painful situation.

Late one night, after everyone else in the house was asleep, I could no longer contain my grief. Curled up in the rocking chair beside the evergreen, I wept. Nothing stayed the same I thought bitterly. Life was a hodgepodge of heartbreaking changes.

The garishly trimmed tree seemed inappropriate. Then something gleaming gently caught my eye. Through my tears I looked up and saw her gazing down at me. Glowing softly in reflected light the Bargain-Bin Angel reminded me of another Christmas; a Christmas with a smiling grandfather watching three rambunctious youngsters tumbling around in freshly fallen snow and, later that evening, reading "The Night Before Christmas" to a sleepy, pajama-clad trio beside the tree. Those beautiful memories would remain forever in my heart and, as long as they did, my father would always be part of my life.

Time passed. The kids became teenagers. Suddenly it seemed that there was no common ground between our offspring and us. Nothing Ron or I said or did was sufficiently cool to warrant their interest. We were strangers to our children, as alien as if we'd just arrived from Mars.

Then one year Ron and I trimmed the tree alone for the first time. Our hearts not really in the task, we forgot to place the Bargain-Bin Angel on its top. The kids came home, barely acknowledging our efforts. But when they saw the angel on a table, all indifference vanished.

"What's wrong? Why isn't Bargain-Bin on the tree?"

Steve was handing her to his father while Carol and Joan pulled the stepladder into position. "We can't have Christmas without Bargain-Bin!"

When she finally rested atop the balsam fir, the entire family stepped back to admire her…once again. "Remember the Christmas…" Joan began and suddenly all five of us were reminiscing about Yuletides past.

 More time passed. The kids finished high school and moved on to university. When all three had completed their studies Ron and I brought a new treetop ornament, a glowing electric star. It would symbolize a milestone in our financial lives…we thought.

The moment Joan, Carol and Steve arrived home for the holidays and saw the new decoration, there was an outcry. Within minutes Bargain-Bin had been pulled from a pile of discarded decorations in the basement. Her crooked, pipe cleaner halo was straightened, a tear in her skirt mended with scotch tape. Then, proudly, reverently, she was once again handed to Ron to be returned to her place of privilege atop the bushy fir.

Jobs and partners drew the children away from home. Ron and I found ourselves among that segment of society known as empty nesters. Our first Christmas alone arrived and with the help of the Bargain-Bin Angel-the memories she held in her aging celluloid body-and three lengthy long-distance telephone calls, we managed to get through a much quieter holiday season. Then a December came when I found myself alone in our house. Ron was in the hospital scheduled for bypass surgery. My thoughts occupied elsewhere, I wasn't eager to get out our seasonal decorations. The idea of Christmas trimming seemed frivolous under the circumstances. But on reflection, I changed my mind. Ron had always loved the holidays and their decorations. It would be wrong not to acknowledge the season-on his behalf. The next morning I purchased a tree, brought it home and, with the contents of boxes of balls and tinsel from the attic, began to trim its branches.

When I came to Bargain-Bin I paused. I carefully lifted the old cherub from her tissue paper bedding and looked into her kindly face.

"You'll have to wait," I said softly, and placed her on a table by the window.

Two weeks later I handed her to Ron and watched as, a bit shakily, he climbed the stepladder to place her atop the tree.

Last year our two-year-old grandson arrived to spend his first Christmas with us. Eyes wide with wonder, he gazed at the glittering tree. Then he watched as his grandfather placed the Bargain-Bin Angel on its top and his face lit up with sudden, enchanted joy. He eagerly stretched out small hands toward it.

"Grammie and Grampie brought Bargain-Bin home when I wasn't much older than you," his dad, Steve, explained, lifting his son up to get a better look. "She's been our family angel ever since."

Our family angel. I'd never thought of her in those terms but it was true. She had become an integral part of the magic and memories that define Christmas in our home. The angel from a department store reduced-to-clear box had become priceless.