“Every card in this shop had a story. These five are the last ones I’ll ever tell.” — Why a 75-year-old card maker from Galena, Illinois is selling his last hand-built pop-up Christmas cards at a special price, before his shop closes forever.

On the morning of December 1st, Warren Truax unlocks his shop at 7:30, an hour before anyone comes. He takes the card he finished at his workbench the night before, opens it, and sets it in the front window. A whole little village stands up out of the paper. A white church. Snowy pine trees. A red train on a track.

He has done this every December since 1981. By nine o’clock, the first kids are standing at the glass.

Warren is 75. Since March 1980 he has run Truax Paper & Post, a narrow card and stationery shop on Main Street in Galena, Illinois. It sits between a fudge shop and a hardware store. That makes 46 Christmases behind the same counter. And every pop-up card in that window, Warren built himself, by hand.

“A card is the cheapest way there is to tell somebody they still matter. I’ve made that by hand for 46 years.”

The shoebox behind the counter

Behind the counter there is an old shoebox. Inside are more than 300 pop-up cards. Warren didn’t keep them. His customers sent them back.

Some came five years later, some twenty. A woman in Dubuque mailed back the train card she got in 1994, with a note: “Still on our mantel every year.” A man in Rockford sent a photo of his mother’s kitchen table. The card was standing in the middle, next to the turkey.

“People throw away a card. Nobody throws away a little village.”

The back room where every village is born

The shop is about 400 square feet. Old tin ceiling. The third board from the door creaks. Over the door hangs a brass bell. Warren hung it on opening day in 1980. It still rings every time someone walks in.

He knows his customers by name. He knows which family on Bench Street sends 40 cards a year. He knows the widow who buys exactly one card every December, always for her sister in Tucson.

Behind the counter there is a door. Behind the door is a room no bigger than a closet. A long oak workbench. A green cutting mat, worn white in the middle. A magnifying lamp, jars of brushes, and sheets of heavy card stock leaning against the wall.

This is where Warren makes every pop-up card he sells. Not a factory. Not a warehouse. Just him, at this bench, since 1981.

He paints each scene in watercolor first. Then he cuts out every piece by hand with a craft knife: each tree, each window, each car of the little train. He scores every fold with a bone folder and glues the layers in place with tweezers. A card takes him about six hours. The snowy village takes nine.

“A machine can cut a card in a second. It can’t tell when a fold is a hair off. I can. That’s the whole difference.”

Five windows the town still talks about

For his last Christmas, Warren picked five cards. Each one stood in his window once and drew a crowd. He built the first snowy village in 1981, for his very first window. Every set has all five, one of each.

• The Snowy Village: The white church, the moon, Santa’s sleigh and the red train. “Looks like Galena on a good night. That one never stayed in the window long.”
• Santa on the Ladder: Santa puts the star on a tall tree while a little dog in a red sweater watches. His grandkids’ favorite.
• The Gingerbread Village: Candy houses and a candy train. Warren sold it every year to parents of kids “who can’t sit still in December.”
• The Hot Cocoa Mug: Marjean’s pick. She drank cocoa behind the counter every December afternoon for 38 years.
• Merry Christmas: Big candy letters, presents and a tree. “For the people who want to say it loud.”

Why people keep these cards for years

Warren has built more than 4,000 pop-up cards at that bench. He knows exactly why people keep them.

• “The Six-Layer Stage”: Warren cuts and glues each scene in six layers, one behind the other. The train in front, then the houses, then the church, then the moon and the sleigh. “A flat card is a picture. This is a little stage.”
• “The Lace Cut”: He cuts the garlands and the snowy pines with the very tip of the blade, as fine as lace. The garland on the tree alone takes him an hour. Set on a windowsill, the light shines through.
• “The Flat-Fold Spring”: He scores every fold by hand, so one move makes the whole scene stand up. Close it, and it lies flat in the envelope again. Nothing to build, nothing to glue.
• “The Keepsake Stand”: Blank inside for your own words. After Christmas it stands on its own on a table or mantel. “That’s why they come back to me in a shoebox,” Warren says.

The morning the knife slipped

What Warren will miss most is the back room at night. The lamp on. The radiator ticking. A new village slowly standing up on the bench.

Last spring the doctor told him he has macular degeneration in his right eye. The center of what he sees has gone blurry. He can no longer see his pencil lines well enough to follow them with the knife. In April the blade slipped straight through a church steeple he had been cutting for an hour. He put the knife down and hasn’t picked it up since.

“I asked the doctor if I could finish Christmas first. He said yes. So this is the last window.”

The shop closes after Christmas. The lease for next year is not renewed. There are 315 cards left, the last ones he finished before that morning, enough for 63 sets of five. When they are gone, the Card Wall will be empty for the first time since 1980.

“I want somebody to say ‘oh!’ one more time”

Warren could hold a big closing sale and put the cards in a bargain bin. Everyone in town would understand. He won’t.

He has priced his last cards low on purpose. He wants them opened this December, at kitchen tables and on mantels across the country. Not sitting in a box.

“Three generations of kids stood at my window and said ‘oh!’ I’d like somebody to say it one more time.”

Warren doesn’t use a computer. His granddaughter Tessa, a nurse in Madison, kept hearing the same thing every summer: tourists called the shop from Ohio and Texas and asked if they could order the cards from home. So over Thanksgiving weekend, Tessa set up the page where you can order now. Warren still packs every order himself at the counter.

“Tessa does the computer. I do the folding. That’s the deal.”

What people say about Warren’s cards

• ★★★★★

  “I sent the village card to my sister in Arizona. She called me the minute she opened it. It’s standing on her table next to her nativity set.”

  Judy M., Peoria, IL
• ★★★★★

  “My grandson is seven and never looks up from his tablet. He opened the gingerbread one and closed it and opened it again about twenty times.”

  Sharon K., Cedar Rapids, IA
• ★★★★★

  “You can tell a person made these. Every fold opens smooth. They are thicker than normal cards, so put an extra stamp on. Worth it.”

  Donna R., Madison, WI

Three questions people ask before ordering

Where can I buy Warren’s cards?

Only through this page. Warren’s cards are not sold on Amazon, Temu or in any other store.

How long will they be available?

Only while supplies last. There are 315 cards left, enough for 63 sets of five. Once they are gone, the shop is closed for good.

What if they’re not right for me?

You have 30 days to try them at home. If you are not happy, just send a short email and you will get your money back. No questions, no hassle.

More from people who opened one

• ★★★★★

  “I ordered one set for cards and a second set just to keep. The cocoa mug is on my kitchen windowsill and I don’t plan to put it away.”

  Linda P., Dubuque, IA
• ★★★★★

  “We used to drive to Galena every December just to see that window. I cried a little when I read this. Glad I got a set.”

  Barbara T., Rockford, IL
• ★★★★★

  “The Santa on the ladder is so detailed, you can see the little dog in his sweater. My mother is 88 and she kept it by her chair all of January.”

  Carol W., Naperville, IL