Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 1

 

The Beast in all its glory

This is The Beast, the nine-foot Christmas tree I spend two days erecting and decorating every season. It’s a beauty all right, but it’s also a beast.

Every tree limb must be attached, its branches first carefully arranged to get the full, real-tree effect and to conceal the strong, metal poles that support it. Then almost 1,000 lights must be strung through its length and breadth to achieve the desired “glow” effect. Finally, hundreds of ornaments my family has accumulated over the years have to be carefully, lovingly spread over its wide expanse.

It dominates the front room it occupies, just to the left of our front door and entrance hall. In truth, it’s too big for our house, designed for a much grander, much more expansive space. But for more than 10 years, I’ve muscled it out of its storage space in our garage – which requires an extensive reorganization of the junk we consider our valued belongings – and pulled its component pieces out of its canvas bag.

Love-hate

It would be accurate to say I have a love-hate relationship with it, one that sadly will probably end after this weird Christmas season is over.

Decorating the tree has always been my job. When Marice and I first were married, she banned trees and all Christmas decorations from the apartments we lived in at the time. She’s Jewish and always has regarded Christmas and the décor of the season with deep suspicion.

Over the years, I waged a guerilla campaign to break down her resistance, bringing home small, innocuous decorations and surreptitiously installing them – a snowman here, a berry bush there. Angels and creches were out of the question, sure to bring down the wraith of the patriarchs upon me.

Meanwhile, I patiently and repeatedly argued that to many people, Christmas is a secular holiday. The Santa Claus in “The Night Before Christmas,” I said, is not a religious figure. (My argument frequently was undermined when the signs of “Jesus is the reason for the Season” began to proliferate.

The tide finally turned when Rachel, my first born, arrived. My wife, who is the world’s greatest mother, Jewish or otherwise, found that she couldn’t deny her children the wonder and joy of Christmas. We put up our first tree by the time Rachel was 3 or so – old enough to understand all about Santa.

Hands-off

Despite that, Marice has remained steadfast in her refusal to participate in decorating the house for Christmas. She is an enthusiastic partner in bedecking the Gunnels Manse for Halloween, but when it comes to Christmas, she is strictly hands-off. While her parents were alive, the fact that we had a Christmas tree was a deeply held state secret.

Of course, she holds veto power that she exercises when she feels I have overdone it a bit, which occurs with some frequency. The mantlepiece, for instance, has been declared a garland-free zone. But generally speaking, she is a benevolent dictator and I am her grateful vassal.

Our Christmas tree is more than just a centerpiece of our holiday décor. It provides a touchstone to the Gunnels family’s past, a residing place for our memories. It’s a symbol of our devotion to each other and our love.

Many of the ornaments that hang from The Beast’s branches have a story to tell.  They trigger the sluggish neurons in our brains and harken back to the happy time when our children were small, our parents still were alive and the vestiges of our own youth still lingered.

It will be with regret – but a certain amount of relief – that I bid adieu to The Beast. Frankly, it has become too much to tackle for a man of my advanced years.

I reach my allotted “three score and 10” next year, and my yearly wrestling match with The Beast has left me a bruised and aching man. A pinched nerve in my neck is a reminder that I’ve got no business toting boxes from the attic and climbing ladders to reach the top of the damned tree.

To the curb

So once we’ve toasted the New Year, I’ll take down the ornaments and store them safely away. Then I’ll bundle up The Beast and take it to the curb, where the junk dealers that prowl our neighborhood can cart it off for some other family to enjoy.

I anticipate shedding a tear or two in the process, but it can’t be helped. Time marches on, and next year The Beast’s replacement will be smaller and easier to assemble for a retired old man.

To give The Beast a proper sendoff, I’ve decided to feature between now and Christmas some of its ornaments, along with a brief description of why they delight and dazzle the Gunnels clan each year.

It will be a way to say good-bye to an old friend and perhaps provide a little diversion and a dash of Christmas magic in a season darkened by death, disease and bitter political divisions. For best results, I recommend an eggnog soaked in rum and bourbon or an old, single-malt scotch.

Merry Christmas everyone!