O Christmas Tree

Over the weekend, most of the family embarked on our annual quest to bring home the perfect Christmas tree.  Our trek was a smidgen Currier and Ives, a modicum of Norman Rockwell, but undoubtedly a generous better of Gary Larson’s Far Side.  Our Christmas tree pick off is definitely a tradition we’ve maintained; even when it might have been in our better interest to leave it be.

Our first Christmas together, John and I picked our tree from a traditional tree lot.  In the moonlight, it was glorious.  In the middle of our apartment, it radiated the most beautiful shade of Rust-oleum Meadow Green.  What made that particular tree even more special was the brand new angel that napped in her bassinet next to it a few short weeks later —Stancey Alise.

As the years progressed, our traditions became more complex. John evolved from a simple tree purchaser to a skilled tree lumberjack. And our kids, once easy to please, also evolved into the most scrutinous of tree connoisseurs. 

Ultimately, they have no say, but for fun, we let them think they do. 

The pinnacle of Christmas tree searches was the year I cut down the tree without John. Why it hadn’t occurred to me to just buy a damn tree still troubles me.  Broke and desperate (much like the majority of our Christmases), I frantically tried to arrange the most meager of holidays while John was working construction in Florida.  As the kids and I walked the field, I carried a toddler-sized Kenny on my hip and wielded a rusty saw in my free mittened hand. As we tripped over frozen patches of mud and dead tree stumps, the kids argued incessantly and my fingers twitched on my most hopeless of weapons. 

Within minutes, I casted an executive decisions and picked the ouchiest of trees. I precariously flung it to the van roof and secured it equally well.  As I sat in the driver's seat, I turned and glared intently at each one of them. 

“I hate you, and you, and you, and you!”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to say that,” Sam had whispered back.   

“Tell that to your therapist.” 

That Christmas we really could have benefitted from a spray-painted spruce. Sure it may have smelled a little funky, but after the little ones shove used-up toilet paper tubes and empty juice boxes into the branches, they all smell funky anyway.

This year, as we drug O Tannenbaum through the field, Kenny broke into song.  Though not the most traditional of Christmas tunes, Rocking Around the Christmas Tree seemed almost fitting.  A bit fractured and manufactured in spots, I was happy that at least he hadn’t chosen to sing the Paul McCartney synthesizer song. 

In my heart, there are the perfect Christmases; and with time and failing memories, all mine have become that.

Given that same cocktail of time and therapy, I’m nearly positive my kids will feel that way too.