Driving around town in January, expect to spot the Christmas tree mulch site. Some old trees tossed willy-nilly inside bright orange snow-fence still sport shiny tinsel, forlorn remains of holiday décor. The tugs at my heartstrings shouldn’t surprise me since discarded Christmas trees never fail to trigger brief sorrow.
I had to ask why this sight causes such a reaction. Part of it involves acknowledging another year has passed. Flipping a calendar page doesn’t affect me nearly as strongly as that stack of evergreens waiting to pass through a mulcher. Seeing wood chips instead of trees forces me to accept the date I write on checks.
The greatest reason this discard pile tilts my emotional Richter scale has to do with Christmas associations. Early memories center on Christmas trees. Bright bulbs, sparkling tinsel, and my mother’s collection of old ornaments fascinated me. As a tot, I treasured holding sparkling birds and delicate bulbs in my tiny palm before Mom gently hung them from a branch. Even then, I understood these recorded family stories.
Mom decorated modest evergreens that fit in various tiny living rooms over the years, but trips to Grandma’s meant blue lights and bulbs on a big aluminum tree. Other seasons, a rotating light wheel hypnotized me with its rainbow of ever-changing color reflecting off a snow-white tree. Grandma enjoyed variety.
As an adult with my own daughters, I preferred modest evergreens similar to those my parents selected. For years, the girls and I tramped Pinney Pines’ fields following Thanksgiving. We searched exhaustively for a tree containing a bird nest because lore said that brought good luck in the new year.
Often, we slogged over swampy ground until mud-covered blobs coated our shoes before we found the treasure we sought. After Mr. Pinney cut it, we carried our treasure home only to discover lop-sided branches or a crooked trunk. Who cared because it had a bird nest? My husband, whose job it was to fit the tree in the stand, did. More than once, he wished we’d find more balanced showcases for beloved ornaments.
After he secured the tree in its stand, wrapping it in lights and hanging ornaments captured the girls’ and my attention. As years pass, I treasure this moment more intensely. Opening our ornament box reminds me of raising the lid on a sacred chest of memory. Wrinkles, weight, and gray hair fall away until I am a new bride decorating a tiny tree with homemade ornaments and one store bought trinket I pinched pennies to buy. Baubles depicting babies, pets, new trucks, ballerinas, mules, horses, Santa fishing, and new homes commemorate lifetime landmarks. Sitting in the dark with only Christmas lights shining creates the perfect setting to give thanks for each ornament and its associated memories.
A sage once said, “One can’t experience joy if one doesn’t know sadness.” This statement describes our Christmas tree perfectly. If putting away ornaments and taking the tree down didn’t sadden me, I wouldn’t feel near the joy putting it up and hanging memories that celebrate a lifetime of joys.