I’m not sure how this yearly event comes to bring us to the edge of divorce. First there is the angst of the rising cost of a fresh tree. We gulp, trek to our favorite nursery, and do our best to choose a nearly perfect one. At that price, we hope for perfection. The tree is hung in the garage to “relax” overnight while we haul the tree stand down from the attic, squeeze the furniture into unnatural corners, and place a large board over the tree’s new spot. You never know when the stand might spill over and cause a flood of gigantic proportions.
It is then that we coax the tree up the steps, needles cascading down at every bump. Oh dear. I thought they told us that it was freshly cut. Too late now. Up it goes. Then the angling, turning, sometimes rebuilding with branches trimmed and reattached in other spots with wire. Someone I live with is a perfectionist, and an engineer. At last he is satisfied, but I’m getting cranky.
It is then that we unpack the lights. Not good. A tangled maze. Guess I was in a hurry.
“Who on earth put these away like this?” I try to look innocent. We all know the answer. Where was he when I needed him anyway? I’m beginning to sweat.
We wind the lights through the tangle of branches, working from the bottom center outward to produce that magic glow from within. The key lights invariably seem to die, wasting our attempts at artistry. I’m beginning to wish for a return to live candles, but I don’t want to risk burning the house down.
But finally the colors look more or less balanced. Ornaments will come later, after another cup of coffee. We sink down on the couch and congratulate ourselves, marriage intact.
This year, we finally took the plunge and cast tradition off when we spotted a 7 foot fully lighted artificial tree in Home Depot.
Joy to the World! I’m feeling quite merry.
