We do it every year. First, we drag an evergreen tree into the house, set it in a prominent location, cover it with white or colored, blinking or non-blinking, large or tiny lights, and hang shiny objects all over it. We pile gifts under it, party around it, then, after about a month, we haul it away, clean up the house, and begin a new year. Our custom might seem strange to an outsider- but a lot of things we do aren’t necessarily logical.
The meaning of the custom has evolved over time- pagans celebrating the winter solstice may have started decorating their homes with evergreens, hoping for the rebirth of nature after the cold dark winter; but German Christians adopted the idea, brought in a whole tree, attached lights, and celebrated new spiritual life through the Savior who brought light to a cold, dark world. The holiday we call Christmas, with its odd melding and tension between sacred and secular, generosity and materialism, festivity and sadness, is here once more. In comes the tree.
Today, our Christmas tree stands in all its glory. Mine is no perfectly decorated, stunning arrangement of color-coordinated ornaments, ribbons, and expensive foo-fahs. Mine is a tree of memory- the process of decorating a full-hearted, sometimes chuckly, sometimes misty-eyed walk with the Ghost of Christmas Past, who is far kinder to me than he was to Scrooge.
While there are fragile, beautiful, valuable, sparkling orbs- store bought, gifted, or stolen during cut-throat competition at ornament exchanges- many of the most precious ornaments I pull from the boxes are those handcrafted by beloved artists of highly variable levels of skill.
Back in the early years of family-building, my friend Susan hosted a party each December. Every guest fashioned twelve identical ornaments and we gave them to each other. None of us had yet undergone the collection process that fills attics or basements with plastic containers labeled “Christmas.” We were helping each other get started (and escaping from babies). I treasure Ellen’s hand-cut paper angels sewn together in a perpetual dance, even though they are now bent and yellowed and would prefer to lie flat. I cannot blame them. Every year for decades, they continue to come out: Rhonda’s funky wood creations, Robyn’s ribbon stars, Anna’s noodly Christmas tree…I marvel at the creativity of Susan’s tree bark Santa, smile at Jan’s festoonment of a big Christmas bulb, and finger the little doily Jenny Modge-Podged, be-ribboned, spray-painted, and turned into a work of art. We were young moms, trying to make ends meet, laughing and learning together- now many of us are grandmas- and the ornaments I hang on my tree are symbols of friendships forged during a joyful, exhausting, action-packed season of life.
Representing less skill, perhaps, but just as much value, are child-made ornaments: glitter-encrusted popsicle sticks glued crookedly into the approximation of snowflakes, yarn-angels tied at a long-ago Girl Scout meeting, cinnamon stars, a faux stained-glass Christmas tree constructed by one of the Fain boys and acquired at a homeschool group party. I think about happy, messy hours around our kitchen table, a cold rain falling outside, Christmas carols on the casette player, and my little ones busily gluing, twisting pipe cleaners, shaping salt dough, painting, and glitterizing the entire home. One special treasure is a snowman Ray made with clear plastic beads that melted together in the oven when he was a kid in Connecticut. It was probably a toxic process, but what did we know in 1966?
Precious remnants and rejects from Ray’s parents’ trees in Hauppauge and my parents’ trees on Hardwick Circle in the early 1960’s may be found- “Shiny Brite” balls that aren’t so shiny or bright any more, but wear the mellow patina of many Christmases hanging among tinsel icicles. For a moment, as I hang a Shiny Brite bell, Mama’s graham cracker cake is in the oven, a piece of hard clove candy is in my mouth, “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol” is on TV, and I am thinking that Christmas Eve is the longest day of the year. Daddy will come home late, when he closes the store, after every family in town has picked up their lay-aways. My brother and I will have our pajamas on, and we will sit in Daddy’s lap as he opens the Bible to Luke 2. “It came about in those days that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus…” After the story of the birth of Jesus, read from the King James with his storyteller’s expression, Daddy will read “Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house…” Later, my parents, young and filled with excitement, assured that my brother and I are finally asleep, quietly will set out Santa’s bounty. Ray’s parents and my dad are gone now- and my mom is no longer young- but the Shiny Brites remain.
My ornament boxes aren’t empty yet. There are enough animals to fill a zoo: lots of sheep, a prodigious number of bears (mostly inherited from Ray’s mom, who was the real Mrs. Santa Claus), at least a dozen species of birds (some with real feathers), a surprising number of moose, one orange salt-dough camel (a gift from Jan W., who also taught me how to make bread), reindeer in abundance, Boston terriers, and a German Shepherd peeking out of a stocking. And then, there are the cats. Where and how we acquired a pair of porcelain cats dressed in gay apparel has faded out of memory, but I think Ray’s mother had something to do with it. The problem arises each year: where to put the cats? We are not “cat people.” They are heavy. The boy cat’s hanger is broken, so he is awkwardly attached to the tree by a wire hot-glued to the seat of his corduroy overalls. They know they must hang near the bottom, and probably in the back, but out they come each year, suspended in splendor with ice-skating penguins, a raccoon, geese, mice, and a cow. I haven’t figured out the cow connection to Christmas tree ornamentation, unless this honorable folk-painted bovine represents the patient animal who long ago lent her feeding trough to the Son of God.
Lest the Santas, ballerinas, and snowmen crowd out and overshadow the King of Kings, stars and angels soar on the branches, reminding me of the night that the skies opened and angels shouted “Good News! The Savior has come!” Jesus, in silver, wood, and glass, in walnut shells, and embroidery- lies cradled in honor and reverence (though such was not the case when he came from heaven to make peace between God and man).
When I think there is no other spot left, I spy one of great-aunt Flo Belle’s handpainted china ornaments, or Grandmother Hackney’s needlepoints, or a clothespin constable, reindeer, or drum-major. There is room after all, for one more- until the boxes are empty except for bits of broken glass and dried spruce needles in the bottom. I step back, and view the ragtag assortment of crocheted snowflakes, various rocking horses, elves, skiers, canoe-paddling bears, wooden soldiers, angels made from everything from macaroni to flower pots- the porcelain cats- and more than one partridge in a pear tree.
In the warm glow of mostly-working white lights, I am satisfied. I see the love of family, the love of friends, the love of God. I hear the children giggle as dogs bark out Jingle Bells over the minivan radio, and the soaring pipe organ at Christmas morning church service. I remember Ray’s mother lighting her flaming Cherries Jubilee, and bedlam at my grandparents’ as all the cousins tear into our gifts. Those are memories hanging on the branches. My Christmas tree is not perfectly decorated, but it is perfectly beautiful- and I am thankful for this strange custom.
