Tree

I took our Christmas tree down earlier today. The living room looks empty without it.

We had a fake tree. We’ve been using it for almost 15 years now. I could claim I bought the tree because I didn’t want to cause a real tree to be chopped down, but that’s not true. I bought it because real trees are too much trouble. They smell good, sure, but they shed needles. They’re expensive. I saw a tree outside the grocery store going for $65.

That’s too much money. Years ago, I bought a Pontiac station wagon for $50. This was back in my drinking days. Though it shimmied at anything over walking speed, it was big enough that I was able to live in it for a few weeks I don't much remember. It ran for almost a year. That’s a purchase that made sense. Not a tree.

Of course, when I was little, my family had real trees. And I loved them. When I was little. Now, they seem to be too much work.

I do love Christmas, though, and the decorations and the good cheer. I’m a bit sad that today is Twelfth Day, the day that marks the official end of Christmas. This is the day, tradition has it, when the three wise men brought gifts to the Christ child.

I just found out that in Ireland, Twelfth Day is sometimes celebrated as "Women’s Little Christmas." This is a day when, by custom, men do all the household chores while their wives and mothers and sisters take the day off. In County Cork, I read, the pubs are full of women while the men are home washing dishes and taking care of the kids.

I thought I knew a lot about Ireland. I guess I don’t. My dad never told me about Women’s Little Christmas. I guess my mother didn’t know about it either. I can’t imagine my father washing a dish while mom was out getting a pint of Guinness.

In fact, my dad didn’t much like Christmas. Maybe it was because his birthday was December 26. When I was a kid, I always thought that was a bum deal. But that’s not why he didn’t like Christmas. He didn’t like spending time or money on what he figured were frivolities. He didn’t walk around saying "Humbug" to everybody but he wasn’t exactly full of good cheer.

For years, after my parents built a motel not far from Tampa, our only Christmas tree was an aluminum number illuminated by a spotlight that flashed red and blue and green. It wasn’t even in our living room. It was in the motel office, behind the registration desk.

It was a terrible tree. But not long ago I learned those old, aluminum trees are rare and selling for hundreds or in some cases a thousand dollars or more. I asked my mom what happened to ours. "Oh, your father threw it away thirty years ago," she said.

I glad my dad didn’t live to find out he threw away a valuable antique. That might well have caused him to give up on Christmas all together.

Lynne and I are throwing our old, phony tree away today. It won’t stand straight. It’s worn out. Some of its branches are almost bare. She wants to get a real tree next year. I’ve thought about it and decided we should, if I’m celebrating Christmas. For one thing, it’s what Lynne wants. For another, I’d enjoy it.

I would like to smell a tree one more time. But I’m not going to tell Lynne about Women’s Little Christmas.