For the Love of Christmas

by Jeanne Bice

  Usually, I couldn’t wait to get our tree and decorate it with Mike and the kids. I loved the big old-fashioned lights, the hand-me-down glass ornaments, and the sparkling silver tinsel we hung one strand at a time. At night, we turned off all the lights in the house and sat around the tree, mesmerized by its twinkling colors. Even Kate, eighteen, and Andy, fourteen, weren’t too old to enjoy the spirit of this simple holiday tradition.

  But this year, the cherished ritual didn’t seem so simple. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a tree. It was just, well—the size. My husband insisted a proper Christmas tree must at least skim the ceiling. Our snug, older house was far from large, but the ceilings were more than ten feet high. And a ten-foot pine tended to get pretty bushy, with branches that could easily take over an entire living room.

  “Maybe we could try a smaller tree this year,” I suggested as everyone tumbled out of the van. I envisioned a simple little evergreen on a table in the corner.

  A man with tan coveralls and thick boots approached.

  “Could you point us toward the Fraser firs?” Mike asked and added, “The big ones?” My heart sank.

  We followed the man to a row of fragrant firs leaning against a rough wooden frame. “Here’s a real big one.” He grasped a tree with his heavy gloves. Mike stretched his arm high to gauge the height and smiled.

  “It looks a little, uh, tall.” I tried desperately to point everyone toward the more reasonably sized pines in front. But before I knew it, they were admiring a tree with that look on their faces.

  I gazed up and up—and up. “Wait! It’s too tall!”

  The kids’ rosy faces beamed. Mike glowed with satisfaction. The coveralled man waited ­expectantly.

  Feeling like Scrooge, I sighed and thought of the stack of greeting cards to sign, the cookies to bake, the errands to run. Wouldn’t trimming twice the tree take twice the time? Still, my family wanted this tree. I didn’t have the heart to cause a fuss.

  At home, Mike dragged the fir through the back door, and I gasped as branches compressed and squeezed through the slender frame. Oh no! Where could we put this giant ­redwood?

  In the past, we had tried various locations for oversized trees, but bushy greenery was always in the way.

  “I could rearrange the furniture,” Mike offered. He moved a chair onto the porch and dragged the couch, loveseat, and coffee table against the far wall. I scowled at the inconvenience Mike’s tree was causing. This was not the simple Christmas I wanted.

  Mike tugged the enormous fir into the newly freed corner. It looked like we were on the Titanic and all the furniture had slid to one end.

  The mood was as icy as the frigid winter weather outside. I felt anything but jolly and bright. I pouted like a child who had found coal in her stocking. Angry words were on the tip of my tongue: I told you so. I told you not to get a big tree. I told you it wouldn’t fit! But I stopped myself.

  The kids had long since scattered. And Mike—Mike looked like a man who was trying to provide his family with a memorable Christmas in the best way he knew. I read the disappointment in his eyes.

  I knew without a doubt that what happened next was totally in my control. I could react in anger and spew out those hateful words—I told you so—or I could ignore the minor inconveniences and rejoice in the grandeur of the grand fir. I took a deep breath and surveyed the space again.

  It’s not important enough to ruin Christmas, I decided. I felt the tenseness in my muscles relax. “How about if we try it over there?” I pointed.

  “It will be in the way,” Mike warned softly.

  I nodded. “That’s okay.”

  “We’ll have to shove the dining table up against the wall.”

  I was silent for a moment. “I can live with that.”

  When all the pushing and pulling was done, our eleven-foot tree stood in the back of the dining room, branches jutting out crazily every which way. Although it took up half the room, the tree was elegant and beautifully proportioned. Its piney scent smelled like Christmas.

  It took us all night and fifteen strings of big ­old-fashioned bulbs to fill the tree. Hundreds of special ornaments adorned the boughs. Mike placed the old cloth angel at the top. She gazed down, reminding me of a central focus I had forgotten. How silly of me to have overlooked the more important meaning of Christmas.

  That night, the whole family snuggled in the dark, admiring colorful lights, hand-blown glass ornaments, and glittery tinsel. It didn’t matter that the furniture was cramped to one side or that we constantly banged our heads on the dangling chandelier that used to be isolated by the placement of the dining table.

  We had our tree and—big or small, tucked out of the way or inconveniently placed—it just didn’t matter. Our family tradition lived on. Christmas hadn’t been simple, but it was simply perfect.

  Out on a Limb

  By Andrea Langworthy

  My husband and I bought a fake Christmas tree. Pre-lit, with tiny clear lights. We’d talked about it for years. Every time he dragged the remains of a Fraser fir through the house and out the sliding glass door opening. After he’d hoisted it over the deck and pulled it up the hill in time for the sanitation company to haul it away. It was a hot topic when I vacuumed millions of fallen needles from the carpet. By the time each new holiday season rolled around, though, we forgot the hassles.

  Until this year.

  We searched for the perfect tree with the perfect price tag. Sticker shock isn’t just for automobiles, we learned. Our budget rose as we shopped.

  “That one,” we finally said.

  I worried needlessly about fitting the nine-foot tree in our car. The waist-high carton slid easily into our midsized Malibu.

  “How many limbs are there?” I wondered.

  “We’ll see,” my husband said.

  By the time we put sections A through E together, the tree was much bigger than it had looked in the store. “We have to return it for a smaller one,” I said. “But how will we ever get it back into the box?”

  My husband said not to decide until each of the branches was pulled apart. Raising my voice to frenzy level, I explained what any sane person could plainly see—it was too big for the room.

  “Let’s see,” he said. An hour later, when every branch fanned out and each needle was in place, he advised me to sleep on the decision. I did, awaking hourly in a panic.

  In the morning, I poked my head into the living room and repeated that the tree was too oversized for our house. Hubby announced his intention to get on the ladder and start looping ribbons around the tree. I told him there wouldn’t be enough. He repeated his “let’s see” mantra and unrolled the spools of red and gold trim, suggesting I find the angel for the top. I wailed that the angel was too small to be nine-feet skyward.

  “Let’s see,” he said. Then he left for work, leaving me alone with a tree that had taken over the whole room and was about to crowd me out of the house.

  That night, I said we should remove the garlands and get the tree back to the store. My husband decided to put ornaments on some of the top boughs—to keep the angel company.

  “We’ll need binoculars to see them up there,” I said. He thought we should wait and see.

  Even though it would be added work to remove them before we returned the tree, when he hurried to work the next day, I hung a few things on lower limbs. Just to prove how silly they would look. Surely my husband would come to his senses, disassemble the mighty oak, and return it to the store.

  I hung angels a neighbor had given me and a snowman from a friend alongside framed photos of our grandchildren. When it was dark outside, I plugged in the lights and stepped back to look at the gargantuan evergreen.

  The bright bulbs made mirrored ornaments from my father twinkle and bells from my mother glimmer. They glowed through
brightly colored glass decorations created by my children. As memories of Christmases past enveloped the room, I phoned my husband.

  “It’s safe to come home,” I said. “The tree’s staying. In fact, I might just leave it up all year long.”

  Christmas Outside the Box:

  Offbeat and Untraditional Celebrations

  Oy, Come All Ye Faithful

  By Dorri Olds

  “How would you feel about Dad and I sleeping over Christmas Eve and we all go out for breakfast Christmas Day?” A trap, a snare. In Mom’s world, my feelings have nothing to do with anything. Especially when she wants something, which is all the time.

  See, I’m a dedicated homebody. I live in a one-bedroom apartment that, okay, I admit—I wouldn’t even have if they hadn’t spent a fortune putting me through college. But them sleeping over? Give up my firm queen mattress, down pillows, and Calvin Klein silky-soft leopard-print sheets?

  If I say no it’ll trigger, “This—to your own mother? After all we’ve . . .” The guilt will eat at me until next Christmas.

  Two options: sleep in the other room on the floor on an air mattress (rather have weasels rip my flesh), or sleep on the couch, which is right next to the bed (nightmares of being tied to her by an umbilical cord). It’s hard enough to create boundaries without us sleeping like sardines.

  “Okay, Mom. Sure.”

  We’re devout atheist Jews. Dad taught me passionately, “Religion was created by the rich to control the masses. Poor dumb people, manipulated by their own fears.” Our family celebrates every holiday—Christmas, Hanukkah, Easter, Passover. “Oy, how we’ve suffered, now let’s eat.”

  Mom and Dad arrive early and buzz from the lobby three times. I’ve told them once is plenty. Buddy barks and runs in frenzied circles. They ring my doorbell twice, and knock, then call out, “Hi, we’re here.”

  Okay, breathe. Grant me the serenity to accept the parents I cannot change.

  “Hi Mom! Hi Dad!”

  “Hi honey!”

  I smile the way I do when Dad’s setting the camera for our annual family pictures and my nieces are crying while Dad is shouting damnitsmile.

  Jogging three miles a day for forty years shows in Mom’s taut, muscular legs. The stubborn bulge in her tummy looks out of place on her otherwise lithe body. Mom’s short, curly hair looks whiter than I remember, contrasted by thick black eyebrows—her lethal weapons.

  I love Dad’s olive skin, even at eighty-eight, with its thin folds and neat creases. I marvel at his lean, muscular body. He’s never fluctuated more than three pounds. He still plays tennis twice a week. I can tell by the way he’s standing that his shoulder hurts.

  “Lookin’ good there, kid. Boy, I wanna tell you, if I was twenty years younger and not your father, you’d be in trouble.” He pats me on the rear even though I’ve told him three thousand times not to.

  They drop their coats over chairs and Mom plops her huge purse onto the table with a forceful clunk and squishes the perfectly folded napkins.

  My jaw is so tight I’ll have to call the chiropractor later.

  “Honey,” Mom says in her shrill nasal voice, “I brought you some clippings.”

  One of the things I love about Mom is that she mails articles to me with bright yellow Post-it notes, “Enjoy!” or “FYI” and always “Love, Mom.” It’s so sweet it makes me want to cry, but right now I’m timing the vegetables and the pasta and the chicken, and I can’t give her my attention.

  “Let’s talk about it after dinner, Ma.”

  She lets out a sigh and shoots me a look. I return to the kitchen and call out, “Can you please clear your stuff off the table and chairs? Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Mom follows me and says, “How can I help?”

  I know she means well, but she’s oblivious. When she walks into the narrow kitchen it cramps me into a corner—the antithesis to help. I have shooting pains in my neck and a burning sensation in my arms. My right eye twitches. Dad walks into the kitchen. Now I really can’t move.

  Dinner is pleasant enough. My shoulders lower a little. Okay. I’m going to be alright.

  We go to the couch. Mom starts talking about her recent three-day silent retreat. The entire time she attended it was quiet. Nobody spoke as they ate together, meditated, walked trails. Mom yaks for an hour about the virtue of silence.

  At last they tire. I dream of being chased by monsters—naked and frozen in place by cemented feet.

  Okay, it’s morning. Mom’s in the bathroom. Rats. I make myself a double shot of espresso—I’m going to need it.

  Mom comes out perky. “Merry Christmas!”

  I have a crick in my neck. I take two Advil and hope for the best.

  Dad is waking up slowly. Noise doesn’t disturb him. Without hearing aids in, he’s stone deaf. His hairpiece needs a comb. I notice his barrel chest is all gray as he shuffles to the bathroom in his white jockey shorts.

  “Merry Christmas.” I smile—genuinely this time.

  Then she starts, “What long-distance carrier do you use?”

  “Um, I don’t know, Ma, why?”

  “Because you’re paying too much.”

  “Oh.”

  “He-llo-o?” Her tone rattles windows.

  “Yes, Mom, I’m right here.” I sound like a weary kindergarten teacher.

  “Well? What long-distance carrier do you use?”

  “I said, I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?!” Her veiny hand, propped on her slender hip, feels like it’s around my neck, choking the life out of me.

  “Mom, not now.”

  “You don’t know which carrier you use?”

  “It’s early, I haven’t had breakfast, and I don’t care about this now.”

  I’m sure there was irritation in my voice, but not enough to warrant her throwing on her clothes, storming out, and letting the door slam behind her.

  “Well now you’ve done it!” Dad says. He glares at me.

  “What?” I whimper. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You upset your mother.”

  “Da-ad. Please, don’t get mad.”

  “Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

  I reluctantly pull on clothes, feeling grubby without my morning shower. We go downstairs. The doorman points to Mom sulking. As soon as she sees us she bolts up the block, stomping her feet in her big red boots. It’s hard not to laugh. By suppressing my laughter, years of heartbreaking family dramas well up in my throat.

  “Where’s she going?” I say to Dad, making sure it’s loud enough for her to hear.

  “Shhhh,” he snaps at me. “Come on. We have to catch up to her.”

  “You go ahead, Dad. I’ll meet you at the corner.”

  He shakes his head dramatically, muttering, “Incomprehensible,” and goes after her. I see Dad talking to her and Mom flailing her arms. They wait for me at the light.

  “So,” I say, trying to sound chipper, “Where would you like to go for Christmas breakfast?”

  Nobody answers. I suggest a nice place nearby. I hear a couple of grunts in acknowledgment and we all set out for our celebratory meal.

  Halfway there Dad becomes exasperated. It’s probably his knee. He pops two Tums. “That’s it. I’m going home.”

  He turns and walks off. I run after him. “Dad, you can’t leave. You have the car. How’ll Mom get home? You really want her on a train by herself on Christmas?”

  The image of my abandoned atheist Jewish mother on Christmas strikes me as funny but I know I mustn’t chuckle.

  He stands there for a minute and I imagine steam shooting out of his ears. Poor Dad. He shakes his head, “Come on. Where is this place? I thought you said it was close.”

  W
e’ve walked only three blocks.

  I smile at him, but he keeps his mad face on.

  We get to the empty restaurant and eat in silence. It takes every bit of my self-control not to poke their eyes out with my fork.

  Six months later Mom sends an e-mail. “Wasn’t that fun on Christmas? Want to do it again this year?”

  I burst out laughing at how nuts they are. Then I’m weeping for how much I love them anyway. I press autodial—1: therapist.

  Goodwill to Men

  By Sonja Herbert

  “Is Dad coming for Christmas?” asked eight-year-old Marit.

  I looked up from my Spanish textbook, my mind focused on verb conjugations. Before I could make the switch from Spanish to Christmas, Marit’s fourteen-year-old sister Marja piped in.

  “Yeah, what are we doing for Christmas?” she asked.

  “I don’t want Dad to be all alone with Judy,” eleven-year-old Daniel said.

  I felt overwhelmed with the onslaught of my children’s questions. I hadn’t had time to think about Christmas while studying for my college finals.

  Before I could answer, the oldest, Dennis, made a suggestion. “I talked to Dad last weekend. He and Judy are going to Grandma’s. Why don’t we go too? Then it will be just like last year, and we’ll all be together there.”

  “Gramma, Gramma,” my two youngest ­daughters chanted from the girls’ bedroom where I had sent them to put on their pajamas.

  “Let me think about it,” I said. “Right now I need to study. We’ll talk about it on Friday, after my last exam, okay?”

  “Going to Grandma’s is a great idea,” Marja insisted.

  “We’ll talk about it later. Now, would you please get Meagan and Liesel to bed while I finish this?”

  Grumbling, Marja went off to the bedroom while the other children turned their attention back to the TV. I looked at my Spanish verbs, closed my eyes, and tried to recall the different forms, but now my mind refused to stay focused; thoughts about Christmas tumbled in my head. I closed the book. I would study tomorrow morning, before the test. I sent the children to bed, cleaned up the kitchen, and went to bed myself, still thinking about Christmas.