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Ghosts of Christmas Trees Past| National Catholic Register

Ghosts of Christmas Trees Past| National Catholic Register

Memories of Christmas trees flash through my mind during Advent. I grew up in Miami, where the annual hunt for the perfect tree required the entire family to wear Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. We got into my dad’s roomy Oldsmobile with fancy spoilers and headed out to the tree lot.

Once there, my sister and I played hide and seek among the trees, while my father got down to business: finding a tree and getting a good deal. Once he found a candidate, he began negotiating with the tree guy, who was vigorously chewing the end of a cigar.

My father knew better than to praise the tree and gave my sister and I a warning look, lest we become too enthusiastic about its appearance. He frowned at the mention of a branch falling and needles coming off the tree like fleas when he moved it.

The tree seller obviously wanted to sell trees as quickly as possible, since the humid weather in Miami could wreak havoc on his wares. A price was agreed and my father handed over the money.

Back home, specific changes were waiting to be made. For one thing, the trunk was too big to fit in the metal support, so Dad had to patiently use his saw to cut away the excess bark. Meanwhile, my mother placed a large piece of white fabric dotted with rhinestones on the ground, which would serve as a snowy floor.

Then came the time to position the tree in the corner of the living room, so that the best side was in the spotlight.

While my father moved the tree, my mother helped me with directions. “A little to the left,” she said. “Now to the right. Oh, wait, that’s too far.

Once the tree was finally in place, my father began the tedious process of untangling the lights. It was a mystery how the fairy lights, which had been carefully put away the previous year, somehow managed to tie together. To my father’s credit, he untangled the lights without uttering any forbidden words, even if he could have mumbled a few sentences in Italian.

Then he climbed a ladder and wrapped the lights around the tree, while my mother stood nervously nearby: “Be careful, this ladder is not very stable.”

Invariably one light would not cooperate and then all the bulbs would have to be tightened. Eventually the lights were all on and my sister and I could barely contain ourselves. We waited with bated breath until Mom announced, “Alright, girls, let’s decorate it!” Then, almost on cue, my sister and I would start arguing over who should hang certain favorite decorations.

I’m amazed today to realize that during an event potentially as heartwarming as tree pruning, my sister and I still managed to bicker. We knew that Christ had come to bring peace, but we thought that didn’t apply to the size of the tree. Our relationship had been contentious since the day Mom brought me home from the hospital and showed my sister the new baby. One of my little hands was dangling in front of my sister’s face and she couldn’t help but bite.

In the middle of decorating, our mother gave us a “look,” meaning we better stop arguing or we’d be sorry, and we suddenly turned into angelic children. We found each of the ornaments in the little cardboard boxes that have special compartments for each delicate orb. We were delighted with the angel our father placed at the top of the tree. Then our mother opened the tinsel box and we took the thin, shiny silver strands and carefully placed them on the limbs.

Finally, Mom gently placed the Nativity scene under the tree with the statue of Baby Jesus nestled in the Nativity scene. Some people dropped the baby off there on Christmas Eve, but we loved having him there from the start. My sister and I loved animals and would take them out later to play with them, although we kept this a secret from our mother. We also didn’t tell him that we let our pet turtles roam freely on the snowy fabric under the tree and join the crowd of animals “adoring” the depicted newborn king.

At night, when the room was dark, I would lie under the tree, look at the branches adorned with lights, and dream of the future. Who will I become when I grow up? What would Christmas be like then?

I could not have predicted that many years from now I would have an apartment in Atlanta and my own tree. I also couldn’t predict that my big cat, Funky, would climb the branches one night and knock the whole thing over.

I also didn’t anticipate that one day I would decorate a little “Charlie Brown” tree with my husband, who would give me a handmade ornament every year. This is the same guy who surprised me on a walk by stopping under a mistletoe tree and kissing me.

Every year, when I take out the little tree, I marvel at the decorations it has made for me. I have a fabric that I place under the tree and little lights that light up the dark nights before Christmas. So far, my newest tomcat, Fuzzy, hasn’t knocked down the tree, although I see him looking at it longingly from time to time, perhaps planning an attack.

The trees of childhood and adulthood merge into one, as do other rituals. Cups of rich eggnog, my mother’s homemade biscotti, corsages made of ribbons and bells are all part of the enduring landscape of Christmas. I can almost hear my mother telling me how to best position the tree and I imagine the scent of her special cookies baking. My parents and my husband are gone, but my little tree bears witness to their love.

My sister and I eventually made a truce and stopped bickering over tree pruning, and my mother discovered the turtles wandering around the nursery, but to our surprise, she forgave us.

Christmas trees are evergreen to remind us that, despite the harshness of winter, we can discover love and life in the outstretched arms of the baby in the manger. Trees eternally remind us that with God all things are possible.