I was sitting in my living room last Sunday, half way watching a football game, but mostly reminiscing of past similar Sundays and anticipating the season that is now upon us.
Last Sunday, you might recall, was a miserable day. It was cold, rainy and utterly forbidding. It was the type of weather that my old father-in-law, Arthur, would describe as “day ain’t fit for man or beast.”
I saw the heavy drizzle outside the window and debated calling Don Jackson, the fearless leader of our golf group, cancelling my golf game for Monday. On second thought I opted to put it off for a while. Let him think I am going to play. Jackson likes to prepare the game well in advance even though we are down to five players.
I was mostly looking toward the corner of the living room that generally houses our Christmas tree. We have had a tree there every Christmas since we moved in. And that was in 1959. That’s a total of 51 years, meaning that quite a few spruce or other types of evergreen have been chopped to enliven our household.
I disdain artificial trees. The aroma of pine or some other freshly cut tree lends a semblance of class to the living room, modest though it might be. During most of those Christmases we had three kids living at home. As I recall they were as insistent on live trees as I.
I remember one year when one of them talked me into buying a live tree in a pot and giving it the spot of glory. After Christmas I planted it in the backyard and it is still living. Instead of a Christmas tree, however, it mostly resembles an unkempt shrub.
The big debate – personal, of course – was should this tradition continue. Should I once more go down to The Pinery, pick out a tree, lug it home and then wrestle it into the house?
Then there would be the task of locating the lights and tree decorations and take the better part of an afternoon, untangling wires and placing the lights on strategic places, and using the red and gold balls to fill the voids. And for what? There is only wife, Zula, the caregiver, and me to look at it. There might also be a neighbor or two who might pop in with Christmas cookies or Seas Candy and that’s about it.
In the past few years I have wondered just how much the Christmas tree means to Zula. Her living room chair is adjacent to the tree and we generally have the tree lights on even in the daytime. She has always had an affinity for the color red.
About five years ago I discarded all of our lights and bought a half dozen sets of red lights. Our tree, therefore, is emblazoned in red, a sort of a sentinel in that part of the room. She sees it, of course, but has never commented on it or made any indication that she is aware of it. I have been rather Pollyannaish about this and have always assumed that she is not only aware of the red-lighted tree but in her own way loves it.
This thought alone should be a positive vote for a tree in 2010.
According to tradition, the day after Thanksgiving is known in the retail trade as Black Friday. It is the day when all the merchants of toys, clothing, appliances and other items of interest wring their hands in glee.
The result of the day should replenish those otherwise empty coffers and give a bit of boost to the sluggish economy. The Sunday papers were one mass of advertisements with everything from real estate to Tinker Toys on sale. The coupon clippers, no doubt, had a field day with the anticipation of the bargains at hand. We are happy for all.
I checked the weather forecast and learned that it would still be wet and cold. So I made it official. I called Jackson and cancelled my golf date.
But what can one do on a day not fit for man or beast? I think I will shop for a Christmas tree.
