In 1847, Prince Albert wrote: “I must now seek in the children an echo of what Ernest [his brother] and I were in the old time, of what we felt and thought; and their delight in the Christmas-trees is not less than ours used to be”.
Family Heirlooms
I have a vision of my mother standing on a ladder lacing fragile strings of little ornaments from the top of the Christmas tree to the bottom. Each string held 12 one-inch high hexagons each with its own intricate pattern etched on paper-thin sides. Each year one of these heirlooms was not replaced in its box, and as each Christmas passed the strings came to represent the loss of a year, the loss of a tradition, and the loss of a part of an era that was slipping through my mother’s fingers as her children grew into what she did not want them to be, and the world changed us into people far from what anyone in her generation ever imagined. The delicacy of these ornaments and the Victorian tradition that they carried was laced with curses as ornaments fell and tinkled on the green rug below the tree. Gradually the romantic picture of decorating the tree shattered and cracked with its ornaments.
Clinging Curses
In their transition from the attic to the living room and from the box to the tree, several ancient bulbs would inevitably break. It was as if waiting in their musty yellow boxes whose corners had long since come undone weakened them. The beginning of the tree decorating session started with the anticipation of opening the glittering ornament jewels and hoping they had survived another year. This was the best part of the process because my mother was fresh and excited too. By the end of the day when she was ready to perch Santa on the uppermost tip of the tree, she was spent, and her curses clung to the spirit of tradition.
Silent Night
There was a method to my mother’s tree-decorating that dated back through the generations of her rather stormy past. She started at the top of the tree with the tiniest ornaments and gradually they increased in size until the bulbs, big enough to mirror my face, would dip under the bottommost bow of the tree. She laced the fragile string ornaments throughout the tree only after each individual ornaments was secured. My mother lifted them out of their ancient boxes. Collectively, we held our breath anticipating the worst if they clicked and tinkled on their way to their resting place. Most of them made it to their designated branch without breaking, but there was always one ornament that slithered through the bows to silently shatter on the soft green rug.
Breaking Tradition
I carried the tension of Christmas tree decorating with me every year until I was old enough to return home after this yearly feat was complete. I felt obligated to continue this tradition with my children, minus the precious ornaments, which had long since shattered on the living room rug. We gathered our own collection of ornaments throughout the years, and when I moved out of the house where my children had always celebrated Christmas, I forgot to pull my collection of ornaments off of the Christmas tree.
Seeing the Tree through the Christmas Presents
Years later, my third child and I confided in each other that the Christmas tree process was a bore. We had to go out in the cold, find the damn tree, cut it down, strap it to the car, drag it in the house, and manipulate it into the impossible tree stand. And that was only the beginning. We had to decorate it, light it, water it and clean up pine needles for the entire Christmas season and into the summer as stray pine needles lingered by the window, or the front door. This conversation liberated me. My dream of getting a one-foot Christmas tree started to come true, but I knew that I could not make the transition to a smaller tree abruptly. Each year, the tree got smaller. We slowly started to replace the ornaments I had left behind. One year when I Skyped my youngest daughter who was on an exchange in Chile, we had to move the presents so that she could see the tree.
I bought my Christmas tree last night, which is early for me. Usually, I wait until Christmas Eve. The tree is artificial and it stands at five inches. I love the idea of Christmas, rebirth, the light in the dark winter, Christ’s story as a metaphor for the cleansing of the human spirit. I cry when I sing Christmas carols. Maybe I should be sorry that I could not pass the tree decorating tradition to my children, but I am grateful that I did not pass on the tension trap that went along with it.
