I got some not very heartening news last week,
which I’m still processing. But instead of doing something like opening a bottle
of single malt and sticking a straw in it, I decided to get a Christmas tree. I
haven’t had one of those since 2008—for a number of reasons, including travel
at the holidays and living for five years in a third-floor walk-up.
I got a small tree—maybe 5.5 feet—at Home
Depot. (Note to self: don’t go there again. The woman at the garden center cash
register could not bear to tear herself away from her mobile phone to do more
than take money; God forbid she should have to do something like help a
customer.)
Then I realized that in my last major move, I
got rid of most of my fairy lights, so I had to run out to Target to get a
string. Evidently everything is cold-looking LED, and twinkling is so last
century. But I got the lights sorted, and pulled out my carton of ornaments
that have survived. Some of them go back to the 70s—maybe a little worn, but
still meaningful—every one of them represents either a gift or a trip. With a
tree this small, I can only put on about half of them, but it gave me pleasure
to do that.
I have to say that the final product is not up
to my usual standard of just so-ness, but I am out of practice, so I’m cutting
myself some slack. In the evenings, with just the lights on the tree and
candles about the room, I’m grateful to be able bask in the glow of the season,
and shut out everything else.
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