My absolute favorite ornament is the white poster board star with irregular strips of silver glitter fanning out to the edge of each star point. In the very center is a glued-on picture of our oldest daughter at about the age of 6, dressed in a red plaid dress with a wide white collar. Her tenuous half-smile barely conceals her self-consciousness at having her picture made, but I would know that smile anywhere. That angelic face, framed by brown ringlets of untamed hair, stares back at me each year as I carefully place it near the top center of the family Christmas tree. It means nothing to anyone except us, but if the house were on fire and I could get to it, I would definitely carry it out.
When we married, we moved into this house. At a much younger age, I would never have dreamed that a house could breathe; that it could take on a personality and reflect the lives and characteristics of those who call it home. Maybe it’s my warped personality and soft heart that personalizes everything, but this house is rooted in my soul. Our family has grown up and grown a bit older here but we’ve never really outgrown the little three-bedroom, narrow-hallway, galley-kitchen structure with the completely overstuffed garage and too many pets to mention. I’m reminded of that fact each year when we—or actually when I and any stragglers who have nothing else to do or just didn’t see it coming—fend off the cats and put up the family Christmas tree. And somehow this year, that little slightly wopsided, a bit loose in the branches, not fully lit pre-lit tree has touched my heart in a way that it never did before.
The difference is that we finally bit the bullet and built our dream house at the farm, a mere 10 miles from our little starter house. The farm has been in my husband’s family for generations. It’s where his dad was raised and where his grandparents lived and died. When the last renters finally vacated the place, we razed the old original house and built our own. And it’s beautiful. Right down to the elegant, perfectly straight, pre-lit Christmas tree that can be operated with the touch of a button. If you’re feeling low key, set the tree for the muted ambience of clear lights. Some days might call for the lively LED multi-color selection or you can go wild with any combination of flashing rotation. The color-coordinated, no-personality, collection of store-bought ornaments glistens in the glow of showroom light fixtures that illuminate the 28-foot ceilings in the great room. That farmhouse is everything we always wanted and everything our little home house couldn’t offer, and we’re incredibly fortunate to be able to put it together but it’s not yet my best friend. Nothing underscores that more than Christmas.
One thing we determined during the farmhouse building process was just how woefully in need of improvement the home house was. So we invested heavily in new flooring and tile showers and quartz countertops, and complete repainting, ostensibly under the guise of preparing it to sell. But I know my heart is not ready and probably never will be. I’ve even convinced myself that it’s not at all weird to own two houses within a 10-mile radius and that at some point one or both daughters might need a soft place to land. It’s not odd. It’s just being prepared. And it’s definitely not being a helicopter parent. It’s maintaining a guest house or waiting for the housing market to improve or hedging against an economic downturn or speculating in land or planning for a rainy day—or maybe it’s just that darned Christmas tree.
I hang the Waterford “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament carefully, placing it far enough back on an artificial limb to prevent accidental toppling, while also discouraging any disastrous cat intervention, which is entirely possible. Jenn made her entrance into the world unexpectedly 28 years ago on December 20, so some thoughtful friends showed up at the hospital with the precious timely ornament that has graced the tree’s branches ever since, reminding me of both the baby and the givers. Again this year, it shares proximity with the laminated cone of an ornament fashioned by a much younger Alli. Circling the cone is a hand-drawn panorama of a stick figure Mary and Joseph and oversized Jesus in a manger, bordered by crisscross candy canes and a green snowman, I think. Or maybe that’s the Grinch. Nearby dangle several varied angel ornaments from the days I fantasized about an angel tree but lost interest too soon, and I’m reminded of trips made to the Opryland Hotel and the beach and Gatlinburg by the personalized ornaments that return each year. The Mountain Memories ornament frame is there, but without the souvenir picture I must have intended to include. Instead, the incredibly happy sample family on horseback remains in the frame until I find time to replace it, if ever. It’s pretty special as is and at this point I think I’d actually miss them. They’ve become part of our family, too.
The little plastic doll ornament with the floppy hat and open hand that at one time held a bouquet of plastic balloons makes her entrance each year. The balloons are long gone but the ornament girl remains in place. She was a gift from my best friend in college and I think of Mary each year when I hang her gift. A green wooden heart ornament emblazoned with a “Gone Fishin” sticker is a mystery to me. I dutifully place it on the tree each year but I’m not sure where it came from or what its significance is. Even so, it must have meant something to someone at some time, so up it goes. That’s the way it is with a family Christmas tree. Meaning is everything, even if the only family it means anything to is yours. And even if you’re not really sure what the meaning is. At that point, it’s just tradition, which is enough.
The not-so-special commercial ornaments are relegated to the back of the tree, facing the wall, while the priceless handmade one-of-a-kind mementoes are in full view. Each one is a memory of a year or an age or a trip or a giver. I realized this year that not a single ornament on our Charlie Brown tree is round or orb shaped. Nothing matches and yet everything does, giving seamless retelling of the story of a family in motion. The theme is not angels or plaid or shabby chic—although I suppose it’s closer to shabby than anything else—but instead, the theme is family. The theme is this family.
Just like my little home house, the tree is a comforting reminder that not everything has to change and that memories come in all sorts of packages, including ornaments pulled out once each year or in houses that you think you’ve outgrown.
Growing up, we always bought a real tree, usually from the Lions Club at their downtown lot. After stopping by the fire department for a dip in their fire-retardant vat, the tree was hauled home on the top of our Galaxy 500 and placed in the living room. Lit by glowing multi-color bulb lights, the prize reflected beautifully through the picture window to the street outside. Depending on how art class went that year, the tree’s decorations varied but the standbys included an aluminum foil chain that was never quite long enough to make all the necessary rounds, a Styrofoam ball snowman with pipe cleaner arms and button eyes, and red gingham bows tied by my mother and me. One year, we must have had way too much time, as we sewed a bunch of calico stuffed ornaments bordered with white rick rack. The coup de resistance was always the silver aluminum collection of icicles, draped carefully on each limb to simplify the task of removing them after the season so they could be reused next year. Tradition and memories were hopelessly intertwined in the beauty of that living room tree for a lot of years. It was the anchor of the season for us.
This year, we located the Avon angel tree topper that my mom used for so many years on the little living room tree at home. We spruced her up a bit with a red sash and gold filigree for her wings, and got her, for the most part, centered on the topmost limb of the shabby chic tree. And there she totters, bridging the generation of my youth and that of my girls. Throughout the season, she reminds me that even if things do change, some memories are worth preserving and celebrating. Tradition and place are Christmas anchors, best personified by a family tree full of memory ornaments and maybe topped by a plastic Avon angel.
Actually, there’s one more ornament that makes the season complete for me, and it isn’t homemade. I’ve always known of it, but I don’t know where it came from. It’s a round, glittered, mural of a country church in a snowy field. Across the front are scripted the words “Silent Night.” Each year, it graced the living room tree at home, and I’m committed to locating it this year so that the tradition can continue on our family tree.
Or maybe I’ll take it to the farm and begin a new tradition there. If the evergreen tree represents new life and hope for the future, then I can think of no better place to start than a new house. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on the old. Not yet. That tree is just a bit too special.
