December 16, 2007
Sunday

Last night as I toweled off after my shower I thought I heard Ron coming down the hall. He did not immediately appear, and then I heard it again. It was the sound of ice falling from the sky and hitting the windows and the siding. This morning I heard what sounded like rifle shots that I thought were chunks of ice breaking off the trees.

It wasn’t. It was the trees themselves. When I went downstairs I saw that a large tree along the back boundary line of my neighbors’ property had split down the length of the trunk and half of it was lying across the grass. When I went to church I saw that an even larger tree in their front yard had many broken branches. By the time I returned there were three tree service crews working in the neighborhood, and the sound of chain saws filled the air.

I’ve titled this piece “Hang a Shining Star Upon the Highest Bough — 2007 Edition.” I’m not repeating a “classic” piece again, but I am using a title I used last year. The piece was the report of my Open House Extravaganza. I ended it with “See you next year,” but that was before I knew I’d be gallivanting in Wyoming until three days before the date for the party.

Today was the third Sunday of Advent. I’ve really missed only two weeks of my traditional Christmas season. I’ve recovered from the ordeal of twelve hours in the air or in an airport and am beginning to feel at home again. Within the next forty-eight hours I will make a decision about having a party at all, perhaps a scaled-down version for Twelfth Night, January 5. (You, reading this: if I have the party, you’re invited.)

Lynn came home in the afternoon, after spending the weekend at her new boyfriend’s house an hour and a half southeast of here to meet his family. We went to Ron’s church choir’s concert, a traditional presentation of Nine Lessons and Carols. Then we went out to dinner, and afterward set up the tree and the crèche. We did talk about how sincerely ugly our tree is. Look at it there. Doesn’t it look like a bottle brush? We bought it for our second Christmas together, after Ron’s Never again! struggle to choose, transport, and wrestle into the house a fresh tree the first year we were married. In the twenty-three years we’ve had it, artificial tree technology has advanced so that today’s models are much more realistic than what you see at left.

I’m for replacing it. Ron, who dislikes change of any kind, can’t see what’s wrong with it. It’s the only tree Lynn has ever known, and she seems to be in favor of a new one. She did mention that she intends to buy a nice one after Christmas when the prices are slashed, so that she can have it next year when she’s at the beginning of her great career and living in her own new apartment. That gave me pause, and made me look at the tree as a symbol of Lynn’s childhood.

The treetop star was her request. Until she was about twelve we had an angel with flowing white-gold hair and wings like spun sugar. It reminded me of the angel we had for our tree while I was growing up. We weren’t allowed to touch it because my father said the fibers would cut our hands. I was in awe of it because of that. But then one year Lynn said she wanted a lighted star for the top of the tree. I explained that the angel was chosen because it recalled my childhood Christmas tree. “This is my childhood tree,” she said. I bought the star the next day. I replaced the treetop angel with the cutout you see below the star. The dark-haired and the light-haired little girls remind me of me and my sister.

After we decorated the tree and installed the crèche in its traditional spot beside the front door, I poured my first glass of Holiday White since my return, and we all three sat down for the Ceremonial Watching of Dragnet. I’d post a link to the piece I wrote about that, but I have a feeling that in the next few weeks I’m going to want another “here’s a classic piece” day, and that’s the one I’ll choose.

To be included on the notify list, e-mail me:
margaretdeangelis [at] gmail [dot] com (replace the brackets with @ and a period)