“Hon, don’t you
think it’s time to take down the tree?” Frank asked hopefully this past
weekend. It wasn’t the first time he
dropped a not so subtle hint about dismantling our beautiful Christmas tree,
but my inner five year old pouted and dragged her feet every time it came
up. Half way into January, even I
had to admit that the tree was starting to become a fire hazard.
Operation
Christmas tree is a big event in our household, carrying far more significance
than merely prettying up the house for the holidays. The annual ritual of decorating the tree is
my way of honoring long-standing family traditions and cherished memories of
loved ones. Each year, as I unpack
treasured ornaments and carefully hang them on the fragrant branches, I am
reminded of the years I spent Christmas with Mom at the farm in Pennsylvania. Every year, we would commence our holiday
celebration with the same argument over whether we should have a tree or
not. It was the only argument with my
mother that I ever won.
I can still hear her voice in my head. “Oh
Angela, it’s too much trouble, don’t bother” she would protest. I would roll my eyes and over-ride her objections
with a breezy, “It’s not that big a
deal, Mom.” Of course, it was a very big
deal which involved a hunt for the perfect tree at the tree farm down the road,
cutting it down with a rusty bow saw dulled with age, dragging boxes of
decorations down from the attic and wrestling with a very old and cantankerous
tree stand. But the the look of childish delight on my Mom’s face at the sight
of the glittering tree decorated with the familiar ornaments I remembered from
childhood always made it well worth the effort.
Early on in our
relationship, Frank learned to accept my Christmas tree fetish so he knows
better than to debate the topic of “to tree or not to tree”. He just cheerfully indulges me and goes out
and procures a tree. This year he brought home
an exceptionally beautiful one. But as I unpacked the precious ornaments that
represent virtually every chapter of my life, I found myself more nostalgic
than usual. Maybe because last year was
filled with unspeakable tragedy and loss, forcing all of us to confront the fragility
of life. 2012 may not have lived up to the end-of-the world hype, but it sure
pushed us to the limits of heartbreak.
How re-assuring to find that my Christmas treasures remain the same from
year to year, never failing to delight my five year old heart. There are the
plush Disney ornaments that Mom gave me so long ago—Gus, Gus—the mouse from
Cinderella, Dodger the street wise dog from The Lady and the Tramp and
Sebastian the crab from The Little Mermaid.
There are angels of every size, texture and shape from my sister Maria;
a frayed pink yarn mouse from my post-college hippy days when I made everything
from scratch; there are red bows and the delicately carved wooden kiwi and
sheep from the first memorable Christmas Frank and I spent together in New
Zealand. And the piece de resistance—Great
Grandma Jake’s hand painted glass ornament—fragile and faded—well over a
hundred years old. For years, I kept it
packed away in tissue because I was so afraid I would break it. But what good is a memory if it’s sitting in
a box where no-one gets to enjoy it? So
the ornament goes in a place of honor, high up near the top of the tree.
Now with the tree
gone and the decorations stashed away in the basement, the living room seems
barren and cold. When I said my good-byes to Gus-Gus and the Dodger for another
year, I was so sad that I felt like crying much to Frank’s amusement. But as
difficult as it was to let the tree go, I know that my melancholy won’t last
very long. The upside to impermanence is
that all things eventually become new again. For every old memory savored and
put away, there will be lots of opportunities to make new, happy memories in
2013. It won’t be long before it’s time
for flour bunny tracks and Easter egg hunts.
