Tis the Season

Marci decorates the tree in our Wexford, PA. apartment while Elfie keeps an eye on the festivities.

12.04.18

   The girls are working on putting up the Christmas tree tonight. It is not a real tree. It’s a fake and, because I have a horrible memory, I can’t remember when Marci and I got it. She may have even picked it up without me. It’s the second Christmas tree that Marci and I have had since we’ve been married. Two fake trees in thirteen years. That’s not too bad, right? It’s a nice fake tree as far as fake trees go. It’s thin so as to fit into our apartment. It tucks nicely into the corner. At first, I thought that it looked as if the branches were frosted (well, fake frosted) but Marci pointed out that it wasn’t at all frosted. It was just short of frayed out to look more like a naturally soft evergreen. A thin, soft, pre-lit and easily assembled fake Christmas tree which is almost too small to hold all of our ridiculously sentimental ornaments. We have too many decorations! We have ones from our first Christmas together, one for each girl when they were born, one for each vacation and ones that were homemade by each of us. There are bulbs and garland that Marci and I bought forever ago and some “retro” baubles that bring back memories of when I was a kiddo. There is simply not enough room to put all the decorations that we have onto our second fake tree, and we could never possibly thin out our collection. Too many moments and memories are attached to each precious bulb or figurine. So… put them all on!

A close up look at some of our tree's ornaments.

   I can remember the tree from my youth. It was always the same one. My dad would bring it up from the basement in its raggedy box. The thing was already ancient by the time that I was old enough to remember it. There were these two bare green-painted poles that pinned together and then bolted into a metal stand. All along the poles were these drilled out holes. In each hole you could almost make out the last fragment of colored paint that corollated to the viciously sharp metal end of the branches. I think the red colored branch tips were the biggest bottom ones and the white tipped ends went into the highest parts of the pole. I remember a faded yellow that got confused with the white and there were the impossible to see blue ones to match up. My dad would curse and swear at all the pieces. He would growl and grunt and sweat as he violently forced all the parts together into the familiar form of our family Christmas tree. Because I was the youngest and had the smallest hands, it was my job to reach in among the bristled branches and plug together the green colored extension cord that ran up to the top of the tree where the star sat. My father, frustrated and exhausted, would plop down on the couch and watch as the rest of us applied all of our treasured ornaments and the strands of wildly colored lights. By the time we had finished, his mood had come back around to one of holiday merriment and the whole family would bask in the warm happy glow of our decorated tree. 

Ruby Lynn hangs some decorations. On the front of the tree in this view (bottom right) is a handmade ornament that Lucy made when she was only six years old.

   Like most people and like most memories, neither is perfect. The memories I have of Christmases long, long ago are a combination of both warmth and fury. It all seemed like so much trouble but in the end everyone seemed willing to sacrifice for the event. It’s all completely normal, I guess. Neither unique to myself or an era, the memories I have perhaps seem similar to most. I hope that my girls can grow up to have warm memories of their early holidays. Maybe theirs can be filled with a touch less swearing and cursing if I try hard enough to be as unlike my father as all boys wish they were. 

   Merry Christmas to my beautiful little family, you girls are the very best gift anyone could have ever hoped for. 

Lucy Marie takes her turn hanging some decorations on the tree.