We are insistent on keeping Thanksgiving as it’s own holiday. This year, more than any previous, we have seen holiday lights draping people’s walkways, stores fully decked out for Christmas before all Halloween candy has been consumed, and we’ve watched people zoom past us with trees tied to the roof rack of their cars, (finally, a use for the ubiquitous Thule.)
It is hard for me, I’m a pretty competitive decorator and take pride in kick-starting the neighborhood each holiday season. Now, I’m breaking into a sweat while eating the last bite of my pecan pie, although I do eat it, never fear. After I have dropped my mother off and helped with the massive dish pile, I go outside under the cover of dark and the guise of feeding animals and quickly yank down corn stalks standing guard at the corner of the house. I grab any remaining pumpkins and haul them to the sheep, the front of my coat wet, stained orange from the large craters squirrels have left in them. I raise orange globes over my head and smash them on a tree stump scattering great hunks of orange flesh and seeds across the pen. The sheep push each other out of the way to get at this favorite snack. When I look at the house and all vestiges of fall have vanished, I walk back inside.
Friday morning we wake early. Paul makes us smoothies, we grab the bottom half of the red ticket we saved from when we tagged our Christmas tree in October and jump into the truck: Bronte’s head out the window, looking like a great figurehead on a just-launched ship.
First stop – the Burke Farm to pick up wreaths and garland. We stack them like green saucers, a bungee holding them from sliding around the bed of the truck as we drive. Next we stop at the Wayside Diner, a tradition born from not wanting to take time to make breakfast on tree-day. We settle into the brown semi-leather booth and chat over pancakes that, literally, cover the plate. When finished we head to the tree farm and get into a line of about four trucks waiting to park. We finally get our spot, grab an orange saw from the picnic table and head out to find our tree. Although we tagged the tree in October, today with snow and people it is a whole new world. Bronte gallops ahead of us. We have festooned the top of the tree with bright red ribbon that flaps making the tree easy to spot. As Paul crawls under [the tree] it I take a deep breath of cold north air and look around. Hiding between the trees are ghosts of our sons at various ages yelling to each other, chasing the dogs and rolling on the ground leaving angels (devils?) in the snow. Now, too quickly, it is just us with one dog still rejoicing in the tradition.
Once home we pull the tree through the kitchen, lifting to get past the island. Our large green metal stand waits in the corner of the living room, our grandfather clock presiding. We raise it slightly to put it into the stand and immediately scrape the ceiling. Not much of an issue as there are multiple tree scars already there from Christmas’s past. Paul crawls under the tree and I balance it as straight as possible while he tightens the screws in the stand. We miss Josh, our other tree, holding things steady. I stand back while Paul peers out from under the branches.” Listing to the left”- I motion with my right hand- Paul makes note of my use of the incorrect hand with a grumble and shoves the trunk to the left, I tentatively let go of the newly placed trunk and stand back again, hesitate and silently motion right.
Once the tree is standing, somewhat crooked, in the corner we pull our winter gear back on and head outside. Tradition dictates that while the tree is thawing,(dripping on the rug), we do outside decorations. I pull the wreaths from the back of the truck and begin placing them. Paul pulls tangled strings of lights out of old cardboard boxes and tests each. Ironically, or not, it is the older sets of lights that work while the purchased-last-year lights do not.
Months earlier we chose a decorating theme. This year the color is green. It seems from the size of the pile that we have thousands of green lights, but once Paul is done testing, there are barely six strands. He winds our fresh garland around the split rail fence and lamp post, weaving green lights into it. We think things are going pretty well at this point.
When the outside decorating is finished, we turn on the lights and try to get a feel for what it will look like once darkness falls. Bronte bounds around chasing real and imagined squirrels, the sheep stand at the fence, ruminating as Paul twists green lights around top of their fence.
Tree decorating time. Decorations for every season live above the garage. We pull out the wooden ladder and Paul climbs up into the lofted space where boxes are stacked ceiling high. I ask, as I do every year, why we have to take down every box rather than just those we will be using. Something to do with stack-ability, physics and the path of the moon he says. I stand, arms raised, at the base of the ladder and let boxes slide into them. Once down we make two piles, one pile for the decorations we’ll use this Christmas, the other will go back up once everything we need is in the house. Enough said on this.
Inside I turn on traditional Christmas music. Each of our sons have the same recordings at their houses so we are all listening to family favorites at the same time. We love Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra and Jackie Gleason. Crooning fills the rooms as we sift through the decorations. I kneel down and pull out my porcelain swan that the boys gave me one Christmas. I pause and remember. The boxes smell of beloved old things. There is an unopened one of real tinsel that I have kept from my grandmother’s Christmas pile: I admire it, put it back into the box to be admired again.
While I walk around placing precious things in their traditional place, Paul begins to twirl colored lights round the tree. Lights are a bit like asparagus; there is no ambiguity. You either like colored lights or you like white lights: the two do not overlap. While I enjoy white lights, I am severely scolded by our kids if we use them on the tree. Last year our son Ethan would not look at our tree on Face Time because we had chosen white lights. So we are back to colored this year: accompanied by his observation that we had “come to our senses.”
When Paul finishes I swoop in and move the strings of lights. We go back and forth a few times before settling. I will change things later.. if needed, of course.
It is mid afternoon, pancakes have worn off and we are a bit “hangry”. At this point we begin to toss ornaments randomly onto the tree, arguing while untangling the wire hooks that hang the ornaments. It feels like we have been at this for two hundred days.
Around dinner time we throw the last holiday pillow on the couch. Finished. We fall onto that couch and look at the tree lit in the corner, the living room taking on a new, yet familiar, glow, Bing Crosby sings about a White Christmas. It is in this moment that we, too, unwind, letting the intended warmth, peace and calm finally fill us.
And so the season begins. Well.. it will, once we haul all of those now empty boxes back up that ladder in the garage.