This Diary Entry was originally Posted by Krystal Mesmer December 19, 2011
Who Decorates Your Tree?
One of life’s more wonderful family traditions this time of year is decorating the Christmas Tree.
In some homes, Mom does it. In others, just the kids. And in others, the whole family gathers ’round to do the honors.
But in My house growing up, it was My father who trimmed our tree. It was his special job every year. And part of Me still thinks that as soon as one year’s tree was finished and lit, he began to plan how to make the next one even more spectacular.
My father began each tree in early November. And when I was old enough, he would take Me with him on his visits to nurseries, farmers, grocers . . . anyone who might be selling tress come December. He sought nothing less than a perfect tree (Pine? Fir? What kind I never really knew) and would charm and persuade (or bargain and cajole if he needed to) everyone to reserve the best of the best for his inspection.
By early December, he would start to get calls. “We’ve got just the tree for you” every dealer would say. So once again, my father and I would spend whole weekends traveling, this time to “look over the goods” as he would say.
Finally, the week before Christmas, he would make his choice. Some years we would have to drive for hours to pick it up. Other years, we were within walking distance of the seller. But no matter where he got it, the tree was always just perfect.
Then he began the real work, sequestering himself like an artist, alone with his tree. He’d put it in a stand and circle it for hours, constantly adjusting so that it stood rock solid and perfectly straight. As he put it, an artist needs a good canvas in a sturdy easel.
He would unroll yards and yards of lights—the old-fashioned Noma kind with the narrow faceted bulbs—all connected in series so that if one went out, the whole string went dark. He spent hours untangling wires and replacing bulbs (where he got them I don’t know) until the whole room seemed to glow from the floor.
He always strung the tree from deep inside, starting at the bottom. “Sure,” he would say, “it’s easier to put the lights on the ends of the branches, but this way, the tree glows from within. Makes everything sparkle like Santa himself did the work.”
Once he was satisfied the tree was truly glowing from within, he was ready to hang the ornaments. By now, he would have already unpacked them. He would discard the glass globes that had cracked or broken in storage. He would carefully buy replacements, which, each year seemed to cost more and more, yet looked less and less as good as the old ones.
One by one he hung those ornaments according to sketches he made. He knew exactly where each one would go, and would often use my mother’s sewing tape to make sure everything went precisely where it was supposed to go. He left nothing to chance.
By this time, the tree always looked finished to My mother, My sister and I. But my father still had his finishing touches to add: Garlands made of thousands of thousands of glass beads, spinning from the tree top in almost never-ending spirals—with not a bead broken, not bead out of place.
And then there was the tinsel. Pounds and pounds of the old fashioned lead kind. Linguini, he would call it. Shiny lead linguini, each strand set one-by-one, strand-by strand, until the tree was picture perfect.
Every year, the papers feature photos of the White House tree or the Rockefeller Center tree. And every year, My father added a picture of our tree to his scrap book. The old ones are in black and white of course, but you can almost feel the color hidden in them. The old Kodacolors are faded, but they, too, seem to glow as if my father had invested them with some sort of magical electricity.
My father is old now. Time and arthritis have stolen some of his tree trimming gifts, but not his memory, nor ours. Every year when I visit My parents, out comes the scrap book where we relive Christmasses past, and my father, bless him, decorates old trees anew
The Little Black Dress
