The Tree

Every December from the time I can remember, I would ask when we're going to get the tree. Without fail, Dad would answer "We're not getting one." No explanations. No excuses. No context whatsoever. Just "Don't get your hopes up." On and on the begging would go. It was like some kind of primitive torture you would use on a POW Christmas elf you kept in the cellar. "No No, Elfie Saggins, we're not getting a tree this year. Maybe next. Keep your tiny fingers crossed."

He was completely merciless. He even told people outside the family that we weren't getting a tree. If a neighbor stopped by on December 20th and noted the conspicuous absence of evergreen cheer, Dad would say "No, we decided not to get one this year. Too much trouble." I could feel the color drain from my face when the neighbor would reply "What a great idea! I wish we could get away with not getting one." I would recoil in horror at the Scroogey condoning of this tree bigotry and slowly retreat to my room, making sure to never turn my back on these Christmas poo-pooers in the process.

How could we not have a tree? To me, the tree was a visible symbol of our whole family. I was born 14 years after my sister and 10 years after my oldest brother, so the only sibling who was a constant in my life and in the house was Matt, and we managed to make Sibling Rivalry cower in the corner and cry itself to sleep at night with our vivid fighting and relentless teasing. For two weeks out of the year, the tree stood there with all four of our sibling ornaments that meant we're brothers and sisters, David and Janice's children, regardless of age or location.

We had to have a tree.

Every year he did this. Every single year. And every time I felt the sincerity in his voice when he said no and wondered if this would be the year he would go through with it and we really wouldn't have one. But each December 23rd or 24th, he would go out to the garage and bring in the most beautiful, carefully chosen, tall and mighty tree he could find that year. I could see the marks where he meticulously cut the branches off the bottom so that there were still plenty of prime ornament spaces, but just enough room for me (the smallest) to belly crawl to the holder each morning and keep the water at a safe level.

After we let the tree get used to the temperature in the house and open up a bit, Russ would string the lights on it while I brought up all of the ornaments from the basement. There were four things that had to happen in a set order before we could declare game on and hang ornaments at will. First, Russ would put the angel Mom made of her ribbon roses on the highest branch that Dad had whittled to a safe perch for her . The second order of business was the first item of decoration on the body of the tree: a small paper Jesus that was from our grandma's tree who would sit front and center nestled in the branches. The first official ornament was a Michigan State Ornament that Bill Carr hung as near the angel as possible. We didn't quite revere MSU as much as little Jesus, but it was up there. And the final step in the tree ritual would be the official sibling ornaments. When each of us were born, Mom had an ornament made, a large metallic ball with our name on it, in different colors. Sooze's was blue, Russ' was green, Matt's was silver, and mine was gold. Matt's was the biggest. Every year we heard that his was the biggest. Whose was the biggest, you ask? Matt's. It was with great care that we picked out our spots on the tree. They would hang in descending birth order, which was cool because mine usually ended up next to Jesus, and that was prime real estate as far as I was concerned. Once the sibling balls were placed, all other ornaments could then be hung.

The finishing touch of the tree was the tinsel. Mom showed me that while you could fling the tinsel with abandon, it might be better to hang each strand one at a time--best to avoid looking like the Christmas tree at the Bunny Ranch that way. She and I would finish what had been a long journey of wonder and worry. We had a Christmas tree. And it was perfect.

After Dad died, we all made incredible adjustments to our holiday celebrations and traditions, and just now seem to be settling into a groove that makes sense and keeps the joy alive. J and I go to Matt and Janel's family to celebrate, Russ flies to Michigan to be with Mom for the season, and Sooze's family keeps Christmas their way in Maine.

It's been three years since I've had an evergreen tree. I say it's because I don't want the kitties to get at the ornaments, or because it costs too much, or we don't have enough space, but the truth is that I'm still not ready for it. In an effort to make sure I can still show off our wonderful family ornament history that Mom carefully preserved, we display them in a different sort of way that makes sense to us. J creates an incredible "tree" on the wall where I can hang my ornaments. It still means a great deal, and it's sufficiently unique enough to allow me to keep Christmas in the present while acknowledging Christmases past.

Last week I was in my office when one of my co-workers stopped by to ask if we'd already put up our tree this year. Inexplicably I heard myself saying "Oh, we're not going to have one this year."

"Really? Why not?"

"Too much trouble."

"Wow. I don't think we could not have one for the kids. But you're right, they are a lot of trouble."

"Yeah, they are."

And I have to admit there was a little bit of satisfaction when they walked away with a perplexed expression of surprise wondering if I was really serious or not.

I was not.