Christmas is going to be quiet this year, the quietest ever. It will just be Lynda and me. While we are both recovering from covid-19 infections, we are in isolation, and don’t know when we can return to the current real world of staying mostly apart from everyone else. Our son and his partner were planning on visiting us this week, but that’s obviously out. Then we had thought of driving to Big Spring Texas to be with Sara and family over Christmas, but that’s obviously out. So it’s just us. I put up only a few Christmas decorations, and may put up a few more.

Our tree is a small, motorized fiber-optic tree, about five feet tall. I was planning on selling it as part of our down-sizing efforts. But the tree we usually put up is a lot of work, whereas this one was pull out of the closet, put it in the stand, plug it in. The colors change as the motor turns. No ornaments; just the lights at the end of each fiber.

This got me thinking about Christmas past, and the Christmas trees we had growing up. I thought I had written about this before, but can’t find such a post. Maybe I embedded this in another Christmas post, or maybe it’s there and I just don’t know how to search my own blog. But even if I did write about it before, some things are worth covering twice.

Each year we got a natural Christmas tree from one of the Christmas tree lot that sprang up on Reservoir Avenue not far from our house. Nowadays all those lots have businesses on them. Dad and we three children would go buy one, Mom being too sick to do so, but she was also busy making other Christmas preparations. We set out on foot—yes, on foot, for the tree lots weren’t more than a five or ten minute walk from the house. We had to cross Reservoir, a major four-lane road, but that was no problem.

This was always kind of exciting. Each family member chipped in to buy the tree. Our budget was $1.00 total, meaning we each had to chip in 20¢. Yes, you read that right. $1.00 for a tree. We didn’t get one of the better ones, but we were all happy with what we got. We picked it out, paid for it with ten dimes, carried it across Reservoir then the two or three blocks. Into the detached garage it went, in a bucket of water. I still remember the year when we couldn’t get a tree for less than $1.25, and we each had to add another 5¢ from our allowance.

And there it stayed for a week or more. Then Dad brought it to the basement to “get acclimated to being in the house.” He measured it and normally sawed some off the bottom. There it stayed until Christmas eve, or maybe the day before. Dad brought it upstairs to the living room. On Christmas eve we decorated it. Yes, not until Christmas eve. That seems strange by today’s standards, but that was the family tradition. Christmas eve was reserved for decorating, with Mom in the kitchen. At times we all helped her with the cookies and whatever else needed doing.

The decorations were not color coordinated. The lights were multi-colored and large: some bubbly, some round, some pointy. Each string had a mix. The ornaments were in no way color coordinated, a mixture acquired over the years.

Now, of course, the tree goes up right after Thanksgiving. It’s artificial. The lights are all white LED. All ornaments are silver or blue. Even the garland is silver. It’s all very pretty. But it’s so different than what I had growing up that, sometimes, it makes me…sad.

Previous posts in the Christmas past series.

December 2017: The Candy House

December 2016: The Nativity Scene

December 2015: Progressive Christmas decoration

December 2014: Wrapping Paper

December 2019: Wrapping Paper again