CHRISTMAS TREES OF ALL KINDS

The theme of our Christmas tree is eclectic historic.  Crystal stockings bought in Montreal before the kids were born, textured balls bought at Safeway before we could afford a trip to Montreal, beaded candy canes the kids made with grandma, soft birds with feathered tails that hung on David’s childhood tree, the latest pewter from the office gift exchange.  The lights are assorted.  All colours are fine.  The tree is cheap at Ikea, the kind that drops needles all over the place if you leave it up too long the kind that necessitates some careful decision making about how to correct its irregularities with ornaments.  The act of decorating it is a walk through the past.  The conversation as we dig through the boxes could be recorded as the basis of our autobiography. 

 

Ruth grew up with our trees, but Ruth’s tree is perfect, well as perfect as a cheap Ikea tree bought alongside ours can be.  Its adornments are silver and white.  She declined our generous offer of leftover decorations.  Aside from the irregularities, her tree is pretty much the same every year. 

 

The radio says the silver trees that were in fashion ten years ago are now back in style.  Only now, they can be red, or purple too.  I wonder what happens to all the decorations that go out of style, and it gives me a sick little feeling to think that Christmas trees, like so many other things, are the puppets of fashion rather than the celebrants of memory and tradition. 

 

I doubt if our tree will ever be anything other than eclectic, and I am learning that all Christmas trees do not have to be like ours to be meaningful.  For Ruth’s stylish tree has given us some of our happiest Christmas mornings, mornings in her living room unwrapping our presents, eating chocolates  and drinking coffee.  As soon as she mentions putting it up I get that old friendly feeling, that traditional feeling. 

 

So maybe if your tree doesn’t have to be eclectic, maybe it doesn’t have to be the same every year either.  Could it be that there is some twenty-year-old writer out there reporting with sweet nostalgia, “Our Christmas tree was a different colour every year and we just couldn’t wait to find out what colour it would be.”