The Kushner Christmas Tree

When I married my Israeli husband so many years ago, I had a feeling that would be the end of the Christmas tree for me.  Saving the forest one Hanukkah candle at a time?  But Christmas trees were part of my youth.  A festive part?  Let’s not go there.  Yet.

There was a Christmas tree plot a block and a half away from us on the main road, across from the gas station.  Both the trees and those who brought them came from Maine.  It was hard to know what tree was brave enough to grace our living room.  But we somehow managed to get one home without losing all the needles.

My father—those of you who have read previously editions of my family “life” will be cognizant of this—was never a patient man.  Getting the tree into the tree stand?  Language, Daddy.  And then the stringing of the lights.  I don’t know what it’s like now, but back in the days of yore, if one of the bulbs didn’t work, the whole string wouldn’t light up.  Each bulb would have to be individually checked.  Insert swear words here.

The lights finally blazing, it was time to actually decorate the tree with ornaments.  Yes, most of them from last year shattered from lack of careful packing away.  The festivities were getting expensive.  But finally a star or angel decorated the top of the tree and we were—almost finished.

The tinsel.  Allegedly, one is supposed to string tinsel one by one.  I tried that.  Honestly.  But in the end I just threw handfuls at the tree and some of it stuck on the needles.  Done.

But that was just the start of the holiday season.  There were sugar cookies to make, dough in the refrigerator so it could be rolled out and cut into different holiday shapes, gingermen, dreidels, bells, reindeer.  And there was the sugar to prepare with vegetable dye, mashing it with the back of a spoon so the color was even.

In ancient times of which I speak, companies with which we did business would pass out not only calendars but also booklets of Christmas carols.  I would sit at the upright piano and pound out those carols while my brothers and sister sang away, all of us familiar with the carols from the school chorus.  My brother’s favorite was O Tannenbaum, which he would sing in German, despite my looks of dismay.

The night before Christmas we would all gather in the living room with the tree lit and listen to the radio as “A Christmas Carol” was read.  How much scarier it was to hear the chains rattling than to see them on television, to envision the ghosts in one’s own mind instead of having a show and tell of a movie.

There were four of us children in the house, which had a circular pathway downstairs, perfect for chasing one another.  We were little savages.  Somehow we always managed to knock over the Christmas tree, which would result in less Christmas cheer from the parents than one might expect.  Perhaps that accounted for the broken ornaments?  Still, I think we kids always felt a certain joy, seeing the tree at an unnatural tilt.

But festive seasons are soon over.  Out went the tree, up into the attic went the ornaments, into the piano bench went the carols.  A new year had arrived with a bleak winter ahead.

I don’t think my children ever missed having a Christmas tree.  What they missed, I believe, was Santa Claus.  One year my daughter tried to sneak my youngest son into Santa’s lap.  But what for?  Weren’t the photos from Penny’s enough?

Now I live alone and am passed all holiday seasons.  For whom would I light the candles on the menorah?  Christmas cards from friends are dwindling down.  But somehow I still feel the joy of the season without the trauma of decorating for it.