I just took down our Christmas tree.
Yes, January is almost over.
Yes, I know, Christmas was one month ago.
Boyfriend has been out of town for much of January and for a while I clung to this notion that he should take down the tree. I don’t know where I got that idea, but today is trash day and momentum spiked the air.
A switch flipped and I was suddenly fed up with my own silly concepts of time and sharing space. If I can clean out the whole garage (something I did in December) I can carry a Christmas Tree to the curb. Turns out the toughest part was removing the stand so it could go into the compost bin.
The thing is, I always knew I could take care of the tree. I only kept it around because I like the sentimental glow of Christmas lights.
You might want to tell me hang up the lights, damn their holiday connotation! Just get rid of the tree, don’t be weird!
I hear you, I do, but I’m not going to indulge. In my current home, twinkly little string lights don’t look good with no tree to hold them.
Long ago, I had a friend with four sisters, who lived in a house in Brentwood. The family, let’s call them The Smiths, was somewhat old fashioned. They attended church on Sunday and watched Leave It To Beaver on weeknights. They ate dinner exactly three hours before bed because that’s the right time to eat. They drank 2% milk with their meals because that’s how they got calcium and vitamin D. They had a cord phone in the kitchen for the sisters to talk to their boyfriends. And for me to sneak call my mom when they forgot to take me home. I’d often get lost the blonde haired mishmosh and treated like a Smith Sister. I’d be siphoned into a chair at the dining table, presented with a plate of meat loaf and mashed potatoes. We all listened while the sisters talked about their grades and team sports. As I watched the hand mashed potatoes grow cold, I’d grow more and more homesick for my mother and our microwaved Lean Cuisines.
The fascinating thing about this family, the thing that kept me coming back, was their Christmas Room. Some houses, I’ve heard, have formal rooms, where the kids aren’t allowed to sit on the nice couch or touch the fake flowers. It’s very 80s, partitioning a section of space solely for special occasions. The Smiths decided to put another spin on that space.
Off to the side of their dining room was a whole room frozen in the spirit of Christmas. During the off season, the beautiful floor to ceiling window was concealed by a heavy maroon curtain, creating an air of secrecy. The outside world could not see the 12 foot fake Christmas tree that proudly stood lights-on all year round. Nor did they know about the winter wonderland train set that snaked through the room, around the bow tie wearing teddy bears and ever vigilant nut crackers. Oh the vintage nut cracker collection! All of the sisters attended a professional ballet school that produced an annual nut cracker show that actual adults bought tickets to see. I longed to be one of those prima ballerinas.
The lighting was always perfect in the Christmas Room—that’s what the whole family called it, they held no illusions that it was something else—little sparkling lights hid in the corners along with stained glass lamps that cast a rosy glow.
As a kid who grew up in a one bedroom with piles of mess covered by floral bed sheets, I was accustomed to out of the box decoration. When I saw the Christmas Room, I was six years old and had not yet learned to say oh wow I love it! without missing a beat. I took a beat, I took two. An old black and white television was set up in the corner, specifically poised to play It’s A Wonderful Life. I nodded and recognized a deep respect for this family blooming in my chest. They were weird, like me, just in a different way.
My friendship with The Smiths faded shortly after I dropped out of second grade. The widening gap between my weird and theirs was too much for me to navigate. The Smith Mother would ask me what I learned that day during homeschool and I would try to make it seem plausible that I was actually following the Jane Austen anthology. After a while, it was just easier to softly ghost.
Still, I think of them whenever I take down a Christmas tree. It doesn’t have to be this way, I could keep it up forever. And maybe I would, if it really made me happy. But after a while, the greying branches become a caricature of holiday ephemera. At a certain point, Winter must be faced head on, the smeared grey skies and rain crushed petals and bare tree branches.
Existing in the darkness of the season allows for quiet. At first, there’s an instinct to push against the first wave of melancholy. Then I remember getting internal is a prayer, a ceremony, an ebb flow surrender. Light is always there to embrace: I can hear my own thoughts. When I get there, I’m done with the artificial twinkle lights. Something about this undeniable repose makes me happier than a year round Christmas ever could.
I had no idea these rooms children weren't allowed in survived into the '80s. In the '50s people had "sunken" living rooms that were adults only and family rooms that were strictly for watching tv. Not me. I grew up in an apartment in Manhattan, she says with an air of superiority.