O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
Your branches green delight us!
They are green when summer days are bright,
They are green when winter snow is white . . .
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree
You fill my heart with music.
Reminding me on Christmas Day
To think of you and then be gay . . .
Christmas trees originated in Germany during the 15th century. Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s consort, introduced them in England. Bill experienced a tree with real candles at a home to which he had been invited while in the Army in Germany. “It was lovely!” he said.
Christmas tree memories have been woven on my loom of life with threads of gold and silver, red and green. To me, a Christmas tree is an objet d’art, and I’d choose a beautiful tree over presents. Real trees are inefficient, messy and take effort. Those who buy pre-lit, packaged trees cannot have the family memories that come with real trees.
Daddy often bought crooked or prickly trees that only Charlie Brown could love. One year Mother and I made chains of cranberries. Alas, the cranberries rotted. After we finished decorating, we’d all go out and stand on the sidewalk to admire the lighted tree through the window.
One year my brother-in-law dragged in a dried-out tree that promptly shed its needles. Christine was so aggravated that she threw it out on Christmas day. A mild-mannered friend was having so much trouble installing the tree that he totally lost his cool and heaved it out the door while his daughters wept and wailed. Their mother insisted that he immediately buy another tree.
We worried about our first tree. Would Bill choose a pretty tree? Would I be as slapdash as his sister, Joyce who threw the tinsel on the tree? Not to worry: Bill goes to great effort to find a beautiful tree, regardless of cost; and I am persnickety about decorating. Each strand of tinsel must hang straight.
When Vicki was about thirteen we decided to buy an absolutely fresh tree. We froze our butts at a tree farm on the coldest day of December without finding a tree. Another year, little Vicki watched through the rear window as we drove home via Shadeland Ave. during rush hour. “Stop, stop!” she shrieked. “The tree has fallen out!” Traffic stopped, and people honked and laughed as we dashed back to retrieve it.
One time a market owner’s wife sold us a gorgeous tree that had been reserved for one of the city’s movers and shakers who was irate when he found out about it. Another time a swallowtail butterfly flew out of our tree, but, alas, Kitter caught it. Then there was the tree that smelled like cat after it warmed up . . .
Each box of ornaments contains memories: The first year that we were married, we bought a battered box of antique glass ornaments at the Catholic Salvage Store that included an old man in an ornament, strawberries, a beautiful pear and a charming stork with long legs. There’s a ball with scenes from the famous tapestry at the Cluny Museum in Paris that friend Phyllis found for us and an Eiffel Tower that I bought when we were in Paris with her. I cherish ornaments that once belonged to Christine’s sister-in-law, Hazel Jones Dudley. There’s light-bulb Santa made by grandboy Billy, crafts made by nieces Sharon and Barbara, an Anne of Green Gables that Jana gave me, whimsical ornaments from nieces Dee and Patty, beautiful items that come in velvet boxes that Bill gave me . . .
Vicki made a dough heart that says, “All hearts go home for Christmas for love is always there.” When we decorate the tree my heart returns to my childhood home in Knightstown, the double where Bill and I first lived, the house on Ritter where Vicki grew up, and now our Warren Park home. wclarke@comcast.net