Stealing a Christmas Tree

We steal our Christmas tree. It’s the Grinchiest tradition ever and without a doubt has become one of our favorite nights in December.

How did it start? With sick kids, of course. When they were little, we’d get a permit from the forest department, go to our allotted spot, hunt for a tree, and bring it home. It was fun. Great even. But one year, the kids were too sick to venture far from home, so instead, we walked through our heavily wooded backyard, found a perfect tree, and chopped it down. Voila! A new and improved tradition had begun.

Because we live in a rural area, finding trees is not a problem. Thanks to global warming there are lots of sad, sick trees that need to be thinned or taken before they turn brown and die. At least that’s my rationalization. The hunt begins during long November walks. Before much snow arrives, I secretly tag a few trees. When it’s time to cut, we bundle in layers of warm wool, carry flashlights, and search for the tagged trees. A vote must be taken on the best one (not easy to compromise with five of us involved) and then, chop! We douse our flashlights as we skid across ice, carrying it back.

Invariable our stolen trees mimic Charlie Brown’s: they are tall and thin but perfect for hanging ornaments. Maybe it’s our act of civil disobedience, or maybe it’s our rationalization that the tree will die of disease, that eases our conscious. But at this point, the crime has become a Christmas tradition.

What does this have to do with writing? Nothing at all.

Happy Holidays.

 

 

Ornaments and Words

It was my aunt who first pointed out the differences in family Christmas trees. She loved to visit with people and took great delight in observing her friends’ prized pieces. I remember her telling met that a decorated Christmas tree often mimicked personalities. I think she was on to something.

My best friend’s husband didn’t have much of a warm and fuzzy childhood. Their Christmas tree is a pre-lit silver beauty with shiny, new ornaments. In an act of great compromise, my friend has taken to adorning a second tree in the basement with their kids’ homemade ornaments and her vintage collection that she’s collected over time.

As a kid I had a friend across the street who’s family decorated with flair, style, and perfection. Their tree was covered with homemade, purchased, posh ornaments. I thought it was beautiful, much nicer than our not-so-so perfect tree which was covered in homemade ornaments made from Styrofoam, glitter, and toothpicks. My aunt’s tree was overloaded, stuffed with ornaments, resembling her high energy and nonstop chatter. As an adult my brother had a tree trimmed with thrift store retro ornaments— nothing was ordinary. Nor was he.

A decorated tree gives insight to peoples’ lives. Writers take note of details, like ornaments, and carefully place them into the novel.

As a parent my tastes have changed, just as my character has over time. I now cherish the tinfoil stars framing the face of my six-year-old. I no longer mind an ornament made from toothpicks. I’ve purchased posh pieces on occasion, do have a few vintage ornaments from my best friend, and I fondly hang retro thrift store charmers in honor of my brother. I also love Victorian beads, glass icicles that reflect the white lights, and ski-themed wooden ornaments. I’ve even consented to my teen’s love of tinsel and my husband’s cheesy golfing Santa.

In the end a tree reflects family, history, and the ways in which people have grown over time. A novel should do some of the same things.