waltzing around the christmas tree

A few days ago, we bought a new stand. Last year our tree toppled and crushed some of our best ornaments. We had ignored the warning signs - the tree had been leaning for most of December and we assumed that, like the tower in Pisa, it would simply continue ad infinitum to lean but never fall. And then one night, we heard a loud crashing noise coming from the direction of the living room. We recovered what we could and pushed the tree back up and held it that way with the assistance of duct tape. The local hardware store where I bought the new stand promised me that it is the Rolls Royce of stands (and I am hoping that it is the Tesla, Lamborghini, and Ferrari as well).

So, armed with the ownership of a new stand, we set out to decorate this year’s tree. Pulling out ornaments from the box where they live eleven out of the twelve months feels like seeing old friends after a long absence. I just want to sit and hold each ornament in my hands, remembering and getting reacquainted. Maybe because of this or the fact that we are hasty in putting them back in the box after the season is over, it always takes us a long time to decorate. This year, our daughter and I are tackling the job together (which is usually the case). We have our own particular tastes - she wants order and beauty; I like meaning and color. She does not like clutter; I want all of our favorites to have their moment in the sun even at the risk of saturation.

If we were to ever move, I would buy a house that has the perfect place in which to put a Christmas tree. That sounds like a strange priority, but I would take it over a mudroom or good storage. As it is, the ceilings in our house are low, and so our tree is never big. We do not need a cherry picker to reach the highest branches (though I would love to need a cherry picker). We do not spend a day at a Christmas tree farm, searching for and then chopping down the perfect tree. There is never much ceremony, just a tried-and-true routine that begins in a church parking lot full of trees waiting to be bought (“Pick me! Pick me!”). We bring one home strapped to the top of our car, place it in the stand, wrap it with white lights, and then pursue the more interesting decor.

Christmas trees have personality, and if you spend enough time with them, you start to hear their story. Waltz with me around our decorated tree, and you will meet our children at various ages and appraise their artwork, ornaments created in grade school out of yarn, cotton balls, red felt, popsicle sticks, and empty toilet paper tubes. You might note between the bright colored bulbs that we love golden retrievers, Connecticut, lighthouses, and lacrosse. We cheer for the Putnam Generals and the Patriots. We ski, snowmobile, and surf, and appreciate a good cup of coffee and glass of wine. We bake and write, play golf (not well) and squash, and love our country, a lot.

“Mom, this is ridiculous. Look how many wooden boats there are. Do we really need to keep all of these?” asked our daughter, already concerned about the potential clutter.

Well, yes, we do need to keep all of these. In a way, I find the ridiculous number of wooden boats oddly comforting. I don’t remember where they all came from and from whom. I imagine some are from me, as I give ornaments. My husband likes wooden boats; come to think of it, he likes wood. And staring at the ridiculous number of wooden boat ornaments tells me he is seen and known by the people in our lives. We put a few on the tree and the others back in the box.

Christmas music plays in the background as we consider which ornaments will take center stage. There’s the Christopher Radko European glass owl, a handblown bulb with a bluebird on it, painted by a good friend, and a small nest of twigs with tiny bird eggs. Every year, all three are positioned carefully on branches in front, and at eye level. These ornaments are precious in their own right but it’s what they represent - the people in our lives who are no longer with us, who will not be here this Christmas - that gives them meaning. They are more than placeholders for the past, or souvenirs for painful losses; they are reminders that love is always right here - center stage. The birds keep a watchful eye on us, and we, in turn, keep an eye on them.

In the bottom of the last box, a small red bulb with faded gold lettering sits waiting. The years have taken away its shine, but unlike the origins and age of many of the other ornaments, I know this one well. December 18th, 1993 - the day I married my husband. And like marriages that have withstood the ups and downs of life, the red bulb is now worn and weathered. It’s not as pristine and perfect as it was 27 years ago when it was offered on a cold December night to the guests at our wedding. But the years, too, have given it real value. It’s still here. It endured the downed tree of last year and the many months tucked away at the bottom of a storage box. Without it, there would be no others.

Before our wedding, my husband and I took ballroom dancing to learn to waltz. At first, our steps were awkward and shaky. We counted out loud to get the rhythm and timing just right - step, slide, step – and slowly we fell into a compatible beat. By our reception, we had it down. I am not sure we were as graceful as Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, but it was the first of many lessons we learned together. Halfway through that dance, the music abruptly changed, and (don’t cringe), Walking on Sunshine flooded the dance floor, and we broke into a style that suited us both better than a waltz.

It’s Christmas and our tree is decorated with ornaments that tell our family’s story in a way that suits our daughter’s need for order and mine for festivity. The boxes and protective covering have been stowed and the tree is secure in a new foundation that is both promising and strong. It’s also our anniversary, and, as we waltz around our Christmas tree (okay, we don’t really do that), I am grateful for the years, for this milestone, for those ornaments that we have amassed, and for those that have survived a sometimes perilous road. Now, 27 years later, I would still say, “Pick me! Pick me!”