The Perfect Tree

     When I was growing up, I always thought our Christmas tree was beautiful.  Twinkling colored lights, red velvet bows, a serene, holy angel gracing the highest peak - it was the epitome of Christmas wonder.  There was just one problem.

     Our ornaments were dumb.

     I dreaded having people admire our tree because I knew they would inevitably move in for a closer look.  Mom would proudly answer questions and show off her most special mementos.  As I cringed in the corner, Mom would exclaim, “Now this one is so sweet.  Bertha cut a lopsided little circle out of a cereal box and then wrapped some yarn scraps around it to make a wreath.  Isn’t it adorable?  She used one of her hair ribbons as the bow!  I just love it.”  I grimaced with every re-telling. 

      This went on for years.  Slowly, Moose, Wolverine, and I all moved away but the Christmas tree has remained unchanged, frozen in time.  I never understood how on earth Mom could become so attached to my efforts with cardboard and aluminum foil, which ended up looking more like the ruins of Sputnik than the Star of Bethlehem.  It, and countless other atrocities of elementary art class, seemed to be the highlight of her Christmas decoration bin.  Could she not see how horrible they looked?  How their garish colors and sloppy splotches of streaky glitter paint clashed with, well, everything?  It was just pitiful. 

      As I started my own household, I made a point to collect the most beautiful, the most heartwarming ornaments the store or my craft stock could produce.  Mine would be a tree of unparalleled perfection.  My friends, my family members, my children would marvel at this gleaming, sparkling tribute to the glory of Christmas, and no “ruins of Sputnik” would ever spoil the view. 

      Until Buttercup started preschool. 

      She has always been very small for her age, thanks to her birth status as a micro-preemie, so my heart is very protective of my precious, petite, steel magnolia.  As she bounced in from preschool at four years old, her eyes shining and her size 24-months dress emphasizing her tiny frame, she proudly handed me a wreath she had made. It was a paper plate (yes, the cheap picnic variety) that had been relieved of its middle, sponge painted a streaky green, and decorated with construction paper “holly” leaves and berries.  A bit of yarn at the top served as a hanger and a dash of glitter haphazardly sprinkled in two small spots served as a decorator’s flourish.  It was gaudy.  It was streaky.  It was just the kind of thing I had criticized my mother for loving. 

     It was the most beautiful wreath I had ever seen.

     Over the years, my tree has slowly given way to the crafty creations of a petite steel magnolia with a flair for all things artsy.  I no longer scour stores for the most beautiful, the most heartwarming ornaments, and I suddenly understand my mother’s tree and the dumb ornaments she treasures.  Where I see the ruins of Sputnik, she sees a 5 year old mini-Bertha hiding behind her bed in secret, working at a furious pace with blunt-tip scissors and library paste to finish a gift for her mother.  Where I see a crooked, butchered cereal box covered in stupid yarn scraps, she sees a treasured hair ribbon, sacrificed for a wreath no catalog could ever match.  She sees living memories of her children, now grown with homes of their own.  She still feels the love, the pride, the immense effort of unskilled, clumsy hands trying so hard to create beauty.  I think of Buttercup and how she’ll react to the paper plate wreath when she gets older.  “Oh, Mom,” she’ll sigh, rolling her eyes, “That stupid wreath is so tacky.  Let me buy you a real one.”  I gasp at the horror of my own daydream.

      If she so much as touches my paper plate wreath …

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Christmas, 50% Off

     I read a new article this week that left me speechless, scratching my head, sad.  Blaming the economy, more and more people are “postponing Christmas” in order to take advantage of After-Christmas/New Year’s bargains.  A silent Christmas Day.  Barren, empty trees.  Cold ovens.  A day like any other.  My heart sank as I read of people using the day to catch up on e-mails and television programs. 

      Whatever happened to a collective celebration of peace, goodwill, and the best birthday on earth?

      Maybe it’s the creative genes of my DNA.  Maybe it’s because Christmas is my favorite holiday and, like Bob Cratchit, the joy of the season is in the forefront of my mind all year long.  Maybe it’s my unshakeable belief that Christmas is and always will be a birthday celebration.  Whatever the root cause, I cannot fathom the reasoning that Christmas is about gifts.  After a quick search on the Internet, I have understood the meaning of the word “gift” to be “something one person voluntarily gives to another”.  Nowhere in my search for the definition of “gift” did I see the phrase, “The true meaning of Christmas”.  Nowhere did I find that a gift is, “That which is demanded by the recipient and accepted only if the name brand, color, features, and manufacturer are deemed worthy and acceptable by said recipient.”  I don’t remember seeing any wording that a gift can be described as, “A pacifier begrudgingly shuffled to the custody of a screaming, demanding individual to avoid disappointment and possible verbal abuse”.

      It’s appalling, really.

      This year is a difficult year for a lot of people, and I am no exception.  Job loss, unrelenting bad luck, and cars I can’t wait to shove over a cliff have rendered this year one of the toughest I’ve known in a long time.  The Yankee and I have no money to shower our friends and family members with gifts as we would love to do, but I’ll be darned if I’m going to wait until January.  I’ll be darned if I’m going to look my family members in the eye and say, “Thank you for the lovely gift.  So sorry I have nothing for you.”  No.  I refuse to be that person.  I am using my brain, my creative genes, and the bits I have around the house to make sure everyone has something special. 

      Don’t misunderstand me.  I am not saying for a moment that gift giving is a shallow exercise; far from it.  I thoroughly enjoy the entire process and would miss it if it were not a part of our celebration.  I am, however, emphasizing that Christmas is not about what packages are under the tree.  It is, first and foremost, a celebration of those we love and the reasons we love them.  It is a time for us to shower our loved ones with our affection and gratitude.  If this means lovingly handmade paper dolls for little Shannon, a newspaper kite for Billy, and a cup of hot tea under the Christmas night sky with your sweetie, then so be it.  I am merely questioning what priorities we have allowed ourselves to worship when a handmade gift or a meaningful conversation is “not good enough”.  So what if your Christmas dinner is a tuna-noodle casserole?  What if the only gift you can offer your children is a day of your undivided attention?  What if the diamonds you wanted to give your wife have now been replaced by a heartfelt love letter outlining every reason you can think of why you love her?  Throw in a soft, slow dance in front of the fire and she’ll brag about you to her friends.  What if the surround sound system you wanted to give your husband is now a handmade candy from his childhood?  Bald head and crows feet or not, he’ll have that look of a happy little kid that somehow makes the winter seem a little less frozen.

      For me, Christmas is a celebration of a birthday.  It is the joyous remembrance of the greatest Gift the world has ever received.  It is a day to put aside our differences and relish the time we have with each other.  It is the opportunity to solemnly vow to improve the world around us a little bit each day.  It is a time to cherish those we still have with us and remember those who have gone on before us.  It is a sacred, holy, honorable holiday full of love and gratitude.  It is a holiday of epic, eternal significance.  

      It is Christmas.  And I defiantly refuse to wait until it goes on sale.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.