JUST THE TREE OF US

Some Christmas trees capture Martha Stewart perfection, with twinkling white lights, sparkling crystal ornaments, colorfully coordinated bows. I’m proud to say: ours is not. 

Our Fraser-wished-it-were came in a cardboard box from Home Depot via Sri Lanka. It sheds no needles. It has no piney aroma. It took two minutes to haul down from the attic, already upright and secure in its stand.  No way Mr. Wonderful could go nuclear trying to wrap wire around the thick trunk and weld it to the molding.

But the joys for me are the real trophies hanging on every artificial branch. 

This blue ball takes me back to a drafty farmhouse in upstate New York in the late ‘40s. We four kids draped cranberry and popcorn strands around a skinny fir, then blithely tossed handfuls of tinsel all over it. The finishing touch was Mom tightly tying a four-inch blue glass ball to a high sturdy branch. “This is a family heirloom and it’s breakable,” she warned. “So be careful.” 

Years later Mom gave me that old blue ball for my family tree. Every December, I warned Alex and Chris, “It all scratched up but it’s important to me. Be careful.”  They were, until one snowy afternoon when the young teens were blithely kicking a hacky-sack around the living room. SMASH, blue smithereens, tears. 

Even more years later, on the night before she got married, Alex handed me a small white box. Inside was a replica of the blue glass ball ornament.  “I looked everywhere for this, Mom, and remember, it’s breakable,” she said with a smile. Every year when I hang this jewel on the tree, I don’t even miss the original.

Snoopy always spends Christmas on our tree. He used to share branches with Woodstock and Linus but they’ve gone AWOL.  My toddler son Chris adored Charlie Brown and always wanted to be the one to hang the Peanuts crew on our Scotch pine. This Snoopy is my springboard back to those innocent days and my wonderful little boy, now 50 years old.

When my New Jersey life was imploding in my early 50s, I moved to our vacation home in Kennebunkport. Maine lobster, beach walks, sweet local blueberries and summer friendships that morphed to year-round eased the bittersweet of leaving treasured Ridgewood pals and close family. Best of all, I met Mr. Wonderful. 

That first Christmas after our wedding, Mr. W and I realized our condo couldn’t accommodate our four kids, their significants, plus my sister and her wonderful partner Shirley. Dear pals Martha and Rick Griffin, who then owned the Kennebunkport Inn overlooking Dock Square, said, “We’re going skiing and need someone to mind the door and keep the lights on.”  And we did! Thanks to Santas Martha and Rick, our gang relished three unforgettable days and nights singing around the long oak bar in our “holiday inn.”

I’m becoming aware that the sun is setting on my golf locker. I used to walk and play 18 holes with ease. Today I’m a 9-holer who often opts for a cart. But this spiffy golf shoe ornament never fails to tickle fond memories of Carol’s fun Tuesday group and the “Terrific Thursday Girls” in Florida. Golf is so much more than a lengthy drive and a putt that drops.

I’m a proud Democrat and have been since my dad, who was a high-up mucky-muck on John F. Kennedy’s presidential campaign staff, “suggested” it was a good way to vote. (Truth be told, over the years I have voted for some Republicans.)  This ornament is not a favorite of “Mr. Fox News,” aka Mr. Wonderful. I’ve considered adding an elephant for harmony. Perhaps…

“OUR FIRST PANDEMIC  2020” was new to our tree last year. I never imagined on March 13, 2019 that Covid would drastically change our lives, that  21 months later cases would be rising, that we would still be wearing masks and growing leery of “variants.”  The ornament makes me chuckle. Unfortunately, it’s also a keeper.

Charles Schultz said, “Christmas is a box of tree ornaments that have become part of the family.” 

I’ll add: our fake little pine is actually the tree of us.