Remembering Memories. Or, Have the Aliens Landed?

Once upon a time, I decided we needed two Christmas trees. I grew up in Montana where you could cut your own tree in a real forest or get one from a tree farm. The former sounds very Norman Rockwell, but it always ended up with a tree that had be turned a certain way to hide a big gaping spot and required several yards of twine to hold it straight up. The latter is a bit less romantic-sounding, but yielded a perfectly conical conifer, one where you had to balance the ornaments on the outside because you couldn't breach the dense foliage. Being part of a family of the former, I naturally preferred the latter.

I grew up and married a wonderful man, also from a family of the former. This wonderful man does not believe in paying for something God has provided naturally. Paying for a tree would be akin to paying for, oh, I don’t know, grass. Once we were seduced by the thrill of living in the big city, we left the “free tree” zone. The perfectly proportioned trees on the lots were kind of expensive. And they dropped needles immediately because they had been cut back in August. So I took the plunge and bought a big beautiful fat artificial tree, and, aside from the fact that setting it up takes 3 hours and bleeds every ounce of Christmas cheer from my soul, I absolutely loved it. LOVED IT.

Then we had children. Beautiful children. Smart children. Creative children. Children who attended preschools and daycares where they made gummy sticky asymmetrical ornaments. Ornaments they wanted to hang on the tree. It was at that point in my life that I learned something about myself. I was selfish. Now that I was in charge, I had an idea of how my tree should look. It did not include tinsel garland. It did not include silver tinsel, the kind we applied by the pound to cover those bare spots from the trees in my youth. It did not include big “Clark Griswold” lights. And it apparently didn’t include paper glitter ornaments, either.

What to do? Children have no tact—they actually ask why they can’t hang their treasures on the tree. They pester you to hang their bits. They cry when you say no. Don’t think you’ll ever find someone who will support you on this—I was cast out of an ECFE class for admitting that I threw away quite a few art projects from those preschool years, saving those that I knew had a great story behind it but chucking volumes of the other stuff.

Hence, the 2nd tree. It was the perfect solution. A tree of their very own. With one discount purchase at Frank’s I was transformed from selfish control freak to generous child-centered mother. As an added bonus, I’d get a tree for the other living room. The kids, of course, were thrilled. They rifled through the ornament box, pulling out their ornaments from Grammy and their little handmade works of art. They went to Target and bought boxes of glass balls—green, said Cameron, to match the tree. They bought lights—green, said Noah, to match Cameron’s decorations. I said, “Go for it.” What did I care? I had my tree. I could afford to be magnanimous. It was, after all, their tree. We spent a wonderful day decorating the trees and the house. Suddenly, on their tree, their ornaments looked sweet, and I realized that I’d had a change of heart. On their tree, I could picture years of their ornaments. I'd be saving them for years to come.

Night settled over the neighborhood. Snowflakes drifted down from the heavens, wrapping the house in a blanket of homey comfort. The fire hissed and crackled and candlelight played across the walls, casting shadows of the snowmen and Santas that watched events unfold.

“Plug it in, Mommy!” chirped Noah.

“Yeah, Mommy! Turn it on. TURN IT ON!”

As I leaned over to plug in the lights, I thought, this is what it’s all about. The being together, the anticipation, the beginning of years of memories. I pictured the tree covered with ornaments painstakingly made by little hands, the stories that we would tell each year about who made which one. I sighed, and plugged it in.

The room exploded in a searing attack of blinding light. I’m sure the neighbors thought we were the victims of an alien invasion. Light shot out of every window, bathing the front yard in a toxic green sheen. Mark and I looked at each, momentarily struck dumb. I reached up to dab my eyes, certain they would be bleeding. It was more than intense. It was shocking-violent-garish-and-every-other-word-in-the-thesaurus kind of green.

And then I looked down. Cameron and Noah were also stunned into silence. But their faces, green as mold on cheese, were beaming. Their eyes were lit up with complete and utter joy. They had done this. They had created a masterpiece. It was wonderful-beautiful-spectacular-and-every-other-word-in-the-thesaurus kind of perfect.

Memories were made. Children rejoiced in the magic of Christmas. A family came together in that way that only families can when the unexpected happens. And, as is so often the case, you couldn’t plan it any better.

Merry Christmas memories.