I love Christmas, not just because of the presents but because of all the decorations and lights and the warmth of the season.
~Ashley Tisdale
I grew up in Ohio, where cold and snow were a big part of the Christmas season. When I struck out on my own as an adult, I moved to Florida. As the holiday season approached that first year on my own, frosted window panes were replaced by Santa in sunglasses and Bermuda shorts and flamingos draped in twinkle lights.
Growing up, the first Sunday after Thanksgiving was tree-cutting day. We’d pile the entire family into the station wagon and head off to a local tree farm. There, we’d meet up with several other families we knew who collectively called themselves “The Brunch Group.” We’d all tramp out into the fields and each family would select its own version of the perfect tree. Afterward, we’d all head to one family’s home for hot chocolate.
Christmas in Florida, on my own, was a far different experience. That first year in a new city there were no friends to meet, and no nearby farms to cut my own Christmas tree. Undeterred, I set off to the lot at the corner supermarket and selected a tree like the ones I’d grown up with, a six-foot tall blue spruce. I’d already shopped for a stand and several strands of lights. Even alone, I was excited to get home and decorate.
It didn’t take long, once I returned to my railroad flat apartment, to get the tree straight in the stand and cover it with strand after strand of colored, blinking lights. I stood back, turned off the lamp, and admired the twinkly glow of my handiwork. For a moment, it looked and smelled just like Christmas.
That’s when I remembered that there was no attic to go to and no boxes of ornaments to retrieve. I hadn’t even thought about ornaments.
For the next few days, each time I entered my home, I looked at that bare tree. Yet, I refused to head to the local stores to purchase ornaments. In my family, ornaments were never purchased in bulk. Each ornament was purchased, on its own, during a trip or adventure. Each one had a special memory attached to it. As we hung each ornament we got to relive family trips and personal accomplishments. A dozen store-bought red balls certainly wouldn’t do.
When I arrived home from work about a week after I’d assembled my first tree, there was a box on the porch. I loved getting packages and mail, and I rushed inside to open the parcel. It was from my mother and it came with a simple note: “I thought you might need these.”
Inside was a selection of some of the familiar family ornaments I’d grown up with. My mother had selected a few dozen of “my” ornaments, those that held a special meaning for me from my childhood, like the snowman with the frilly collar, the bass playing Santa, a chipped, plaster dog painted brown, and a silver bell with my own smiling second grade face. At the bottom of the box, unwrapped, but with a blue bow, was a small box. Inside was a new “one-of-a-kind” ornament. A shiny key dangled from a little house with the inscription: “My First Home: 1987.”
One after the other, I hung the few treasures on my very big tree. Those few ornaments didn’t make a dent in all those empty branches. But, for me, it was the most beautiful tree ever. It was my first Christmas tree on my own.
~Gregory A. Kompes
