Christmas trees down through the years; some winners, some outstanding beauties.
Others outstanding reasons to dream
of next year's tree.
What I remember is choosing the tree was always an event; piling into the car; expectations high. Walking through the make believe forest; the trees were placed in their spot, not grown there, but they smelled like Christmas.
Without a doubt, the hilarity ensued when we returned home. Dad didn't ever join the choosing a tree adventure, but he was there to lend his muscles to bring the tree into the house and set it up in its designated corner.
The job of getting the tree straight in the stand
was a touch tense. Dad would get down under the
tree to secure it in place. My job was to hold it, so it
wouldn't fall on him in the process.
Next, Mom would stand at the far side of the room, inspecting it from every side. The tree would be turned, tweaked, and tilted, ever so slightly, this way and that until she pronounced perfection of placement and position.
Dad would emerge from under the tree red faced and out of breath. Then he would vanish.
At this point the Christmas music was playing and the decoration ritual would begin. Lights stretched across the living room floor to be untangled and examined for certainty that they were in proper working order. Mom would begin at the bottom of the tree and carefully wind them around up and up to the tippy top.
Occasionally, she came up short. She patiently reached to the top, undoing her work and began again.
This done, it was our turn to carefully, thoughtfully place the ornaments, each one with a story, on the waiting branches. Large ones on the bottom and smaller and smaller ones as we worked our way up.
Colorful glass balls mixed with specialty, close to our hearts ornaments. The styrofoam ball covered in sparkles created by my sister. The one I made when I was in Blue Birds, fashioned out of dough. The mantle was adorned with garland, candles, and the pine cones I brought home from the school playground, especially for Mom, when I was six. Then, nestled in the middle were the three Wise men, adorned in their beautiful velvet robes, that my Dad's sister made out of beer bottles. I know it sounds tacky, but in truth, they were lovely.
And like every year, as the lights went on first, the tinsel was the finishing touch. Everyone had a hand in it. Personality driven application was evident...some of us did it one strand at a time, others among us would grab a handful, tossing it, letting it fall where it may. In the end, the lights would get turned on and we would all stand back and admire its beauty. It was this moment when Dad always re-appeared to highly compliment a job well done.
Over time, this same tradition was re-enacted quite
unconsciously. One year the tree was living and another it was flocked. In both instances it was unanimously agreed that once was enough. But, no matter the year, the family gathered, chose, placed, beautified the tree and made another memory.
Years have passed. Life has brought changes,
not just one or two. Dad is no longer here to lend his
muscles or compliments. Heaven is now his home.
Some decorations have been replaced, but the heartfelt expression remains. We have all grown up, but each Christmas day you will find us gathered around the tree. What is to come is for us to wait and see all that is in store, all that is yet to be.
