Memories of Christmas trees parade through my mind during Advent. The annual ritual of childhood had the whole family, attired in shorts and flip flops, driving to the tree lot.
There, my parents scrutinized trees for size, shape — and most importantly, cost. Once they discovered a candidate, my father launched into bargaining with the tree guy, who energetically chewed on a cigar.
The tree guy wanted to sell trees before they started dropping needles during Miami’s humid winter — and on this particularly warm evening, my father’s bargaining went well.
At home, my dad sawed the trunk to fit it into the holder and then sought my mom’s advice on positioning.
“A little to the left,” she’d say. “Now to the right. Oh, wait, that’s too far.”
Once the tree was in place, my father began the complicated process of untangling the lights. To his credit, he did this without swearing, although he might have muttered some phrases in Italian.
Next he climbed a ladder and wrapped the lights around the tree, while my mother stood by nervously. “Be careful — that ladder isn’t very steady.”
My sister and I waited with bated breath until my mom announced, “All right, girls, let’s decorate it!” Then, almost on cue, we’d start arguing over who got to hang favorite ornaments.
I’m stunned today to realize that during an event as potentially heart-warming as tree trimming, we still managed to squabble. We knew Christ had come to bring peace, but we figured that didn’t apply to ornaments.
Finally, my mom gently placed the creche beneath the tree with the baby nestling in the manger. Some families waited until Christmas Day to add the infant Jesus, but we liked having him there immediately.
At night, when the room was pitch black, I’d lie beneath the tree, look up into the branches festooned with lights — and dream about the future. Who would I become when I grew up? What would Christmas be like then?
I couldn’t have foreseen that many years hence, I’d have an apartment in Atlanta and my very own tree. Nor could I predict that my big tomcat, Funky, would one night climb into the branches and knock the entire thing down.
Nor did I anticipate that someday I’d be decorating a “Charlie Brown” tree with my husband, who’d give me a handmade ornament each year. This was the same fellow who surprised me on a walk by stopping beneath a tree harboring mistletoe — and kissing me.
Five years have passed since I put up that little tree, but I recently unearthed it from the basement and decorated it, while savoring delicious memories.
So far my latest tomcat, Fuzzy, hasn’t knocked it over, although I see him gazing at it studiously, perhaps planning an attack.
The trees from childhood and adulthood merge into one, as do other rituals. The cups of rich eggnog, my mother’s homemade biscotti, the little corsages made with ribbons and bells.
Christmas trees are evergreen to remind us that, despite the bleak winter, we can find light and love in the outstretched arms of the baby in the manger. The trees also remind us miracles truly are possible, which I can attest to, since my sister and I eventually stopped fighting over the ornaments.
Lorraine’s email address is lorrainevmurray@yahoo.com
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