I’ve put up our Christmas tree already. It seems strange to phrase it that way: “put it up.” It was already up. Up, upright, upstanding in the forest before my husband and I sawed it down, bound it, strapped it to our car, and brought it home. Like a prisoner or a hostage. We kidnapped it, although the ransom was a little funny. We, the kidnappers, paid the fee. And then we brought the tree home, cut its bindings, and propped it up in a stand. To stand, while it waits to finish dying.
Well, that’s a mighty depressing way to think about an age-old tradition that usually brings me nothing but warm and fuzzy feelings!
Oh, don’t get me wrong; the warm and fuzzy feelings have made their appearance, on schedule and more than welcome. I love our tree. I love the little twinkling lights. I love the way our house smells (and if that scent should rightfully be titled Dead Tree, well then call me morbid because I love it). I love the ornaments, some of which are hideous and beautiful in a way that only ornaments crafted by children can be. I love the star, a gaudy, glittery number that leans because the top of our tree isn’t quite straight.
I blame the weather for that bit of drear with which I started. It’s cold and gray and rainy. A surefire cure: hot chocolate for the kids when they get home from school, a hot toddy for me, and then we’ll finish making the cranberry strands and hanging the ornaments. Maybe I’ll make it peppermint hot chocolate, just because I can.