The Memory Tree

Last night I went to a Christmas tree decorating workshop given by the wife of my landlord (who also happens to attend the same church). I learned a lot. I oohed and ahhed at her perfectly executed French Country Christmas tree. She used to be, after all, a designer at a local Christmas store - a veritable expert in all things Christmas.

As I listened to everyone else in the room talk about their Christmas tree themes, I realized I might just be the only person on the planet besides my mother whose tree has absolutely no semblence of a theme whatsoever.

Until I thought about it a little more.

My actual tree is a sad, fairly short, pathetic excuse for a fake tree (a charity gift from a friend who purchased said tree on a trip to Indonesia, if that gives you any better picture of its absolutly pitiful state). Himself mocks me every year for it, but I can't bear to spend a great deal of money replacing something that, decorated and lit in a dark room, manages to conceal its flaws well enough to be forgiven - at least at this stage of my life.

In truth, I couldn't care less about the actual tree. It is merely a vehicle to display a hundred or so memories each year. I have a Memory Tree. Each year as a child, a family friend who had no grandchildren sent myself and each of my siblings an ornament. Occassionally, I received other ornaments from family and friends - commemorating special events in our family or my life.

There is my childhood favorite - a Winnie the Pooh bear perched on a wooden rocking horse - received when I was about two. It has been glued on countless times, but always remains in a prominently visible position, honoring it's revered place in my childhood memories. There is the glass ball commemorating my birth, complete with my name in garish glitter. There is Santa ornament doing a handstand - the last gift I received from my grandfather before he died. There is a nativity scene, given to me by an aunt to support my ever-growing nativity collection. There are the handful of ornaments Himself brought into our Christmas celebration - a few handmade ones from childhood, an entire collection of Rudolph ornaments and so forth. Then there are the very few I have purchased for myself - a couple commemorating trips or special locations, one commemorating my marriage to Himself, another a silly reminder of a passion for Veggie Tales held by myself and some old roommates (we all have the same ornament). And dozens more.

My mom took up where the family friend left off. Since he came into my life, Mom has faithfully sent Son an ornament every year - accidentally starting a snowman theme. I imagine she'll continue the tradition with Baby Girl.

Every year, these beloved memories get hung on the tree, only outdone in their haphazard lack of sophistication by the strings of multi-colored lights that illuminate them. Every year as I decorate the tree, I am wrapped in hundreds of warm, wonderful memories of past Christmases, loved ones and childhood joy.

I will never be asked to teach a Christmas tree decorating workshop. My tree will never be lauded as a well-executed example of sophistication and household decor. It is the kind of tree other people have for their children to decorate. One friend even exlaimed that my tree would have been the perfect inspiration for Charles Shultz as he labored on his Charlie Brown Christmas special.

No, I will never be praised for my perfectly executed tree. Yet, neither will I ever forget the love, the memories and the true meaning of Christmas as I assemble my patheticly chaotic Memory Tree every year. That makes every snide remark, every glaring lack of thematic elements and every pang of uncoordinated Christmas chaos my tree evokes all worth it.

I'm not sure I could ever give it up.