Trimming the Tree

 

                        I’ve never liked selecting my Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving. Yet, here I was at the tree farm going through the contenders that would sit in the corner of my living room between the east and south windows for the next four weeks. The place was packed, but efficient, as tree shoppers lined up to have their trees shaken, baled, and loaded or were given a saw to go cut their own.

                        Ever since my children had the audacity to grow up and move away, I’ve been in this position, ie, purchasing a tree whenever it was I had someone to help me drag it home and get it into its tree stand, and typically, that day isn’t the appropriate day.

                        When I was a child I learned the appropriate day was two days before Christmas Eve. The day was sacrosanct—nothing changed the appropriate day. Two days prior to Christmas Eve seems arbitrary, even rigid but that was the rule my parents established. The formula went like this: on the day after Thanksgiving we would pile into the car and drive to the Christmas tree farm. Christmas tree farms are ubiquitous these days but in the middle of the twentieth century there might only be one within reasonable driving distance. Once at the farm we were released to run wild among the trees to choose the correct tree. There were three of us so each of us had our own candidate and thoughts about which was the pinnacle of perfection.               

                        Early on my parents attempted to bring consensus to the argument and try to get us all to agree on one of the selected options. They quickly learned that an authoritative decision was the best way to get home before dark with no bloodshed. My father would examine each tree, soliciting comments from my mother—(too bushy, bare spots, too big or too small) and between the two of them the winner would be chosen. The tree would be tagged with our name, and mission accomplished, we’d go home until two days before Christmas Eve to return to cut down our tree.

                        Once we brought the tree home it sat outside on the screen porch until Christmas Eve “so it can breathe” according to my dad. While the tree was breathing we moved furniture around and readied the spot, in the corner by the fireplace where this annual work of art would preside over the holiday festivities.

                        On Christmas Eve the tree made its grand entrance to the living room and was placed in the tree stand. After Christmas dinner (usually duck d’orange and flaming cherries jubilee) the boxes of ornaments were reverently carried upstairs from the basement. Each ornament was unwrapped, oohed and ahhed over, and carefully placed in the perfect spot on the tree. My parents were no fools and the ceremonial adorning of the tree was almost certainly a ploy to keep Santa Clause anticipation at manageable levels until bedtime.

                        We weren’t a matchy-matchy kind of family so the ornaments had no theme other than they had been selected over time or were gifts from friends. Our trees were out of step with other mid-century modern families who coordinated their tree and ornaments thematically or with a color scheme in mind. Our trees were a hodge- podge but once we completed the draping of the last piece of tinsel my mother would step back and pronounce it the most beautiful tree she’d ever seen. This was our tree-trimming ritual.

                        Once I had my own family, we retained the custom of cutting our own tree and put it up, usually ten days to two weeks prior to Christmas. By then my mother had passed away and I had inherited the boxes of ornaments that resided in the basement of my family home. Once my children were born I hit on the idea of purchasing a new ornament for each of them every year—then when they moved out they would have a trove of ornaments as a starter kit for their own trees. This year I sent off the final box of ornaments to my oldest daughter as this is the first year she and her husband will be celebrating Christmas in their own household.

                        .

                        So this year I bought my tree the day after Thanksgiving and dragged the familiar boxes out of the garage—the ornaments are still packed in the same Inverhouse Scotch Whiskey and Old Export Beer boxes that they’ve been stored in for the past sixty years.  As I unwrapped each ornament I reflected on where the piece came from—a gift—or one my mother selected.  The six glass icicles (now five) that my mother loved, the wooden ornaments that I purchased every time I had a new puppy or kitten. Those go on the bottom of the tree, just in case. There is an ornament that was my father’s when he was a boy and several made for me by my mother-in-law. A couple of my favorites were gifts from my kids.  Each one of these ornaments takes me on a trip through time from my childhood through my own children’s growing up years and requires me to think about where it came from, the who it came from, and when it came.

                        Over time my enthusiasm for trimming the tree had waned. Years of juggling work, kids, plus holiday expectations had turned Christmas into one more thing I had to do. This year is different. This year I have the time to enjoy the season and think about its meaning. This year trimming the tree led me to remember all the people still living but also the ones who have gone that I performed the holiday expectations for. That’s a good thing.

                        As usual my tree this year will be a hodge-podge of different styles of ornament, but it is also a tree blossoming with the love and joy I’ve been the fortunate beneficiary of all this time. Maybe that’s what Christmas is all about, even if I had to buy my tree on the wrong day.