Getting the lights all untangled and the ornaments hung one by one never bothered me. We usually had family gatherings where everyone would take part so you could always hide in the bathroom if it got too intense. My grandmothers (both the Methodist and the Jewish one) would each spend meticulous hours opening the paperclips and unwrapping the ornaments from the paper towels. Later, there would be fancy already opened clips and organized storage boxes, but in the ‘80s, we had Avon boxes.
That was the fun part. Running around in our holiday party dresses, all hopped up on orange soda. Wearing our stupid tights, drooping down and bunched up at the ankles, because our grandmas were over and that’s what is appropriate for young ladies. It was a different time then. My one grandpa would sit on the big white couch, his lap looking just like Santa’s while my other grandpa was off looking over some building plans my dad always had laid out in his office. Always working, that one.
Then there was my dad. Rocking his silly red plaid vest like he was going to be the lead in some romantic Christmas production (they didn’t have Hallmark movies yet). Don’t worry, he would be obsessed with those when they came out. But back then, he had to be his own Christmas movie. Literally. I remember the camcorder being bigger than his head and we weren’t allowed to run down the stairs in the morning until he had the thing all set up. I don’t think we ever watched a single one of those movies, but he did like filming them.
But you cannot just remember the fun stuff. You have to remember those moments where an 8-year-old little girl is trying to help her father carry a 10-foot pine tree into the house while my mom and younger sister told us how to do it.
I’m not sure why this was a thing. Maybe it’s because my dad was Jewish and his dad never taught him the proper way to do it. But our way, my dad’s and my way, was to not ever move anything out of the way and litter as many pine needles throughout the home, making as much noise and as big a mess as possible.
We would swear. Both of us. The entire time. I loved it. Because we were miserable and I was never old enough to actually help. I would end up falling with the tree on top of me while he yelled “pick it up” as we tried to maneuver around the glass coffee table. Because why would we ever move that?
Then righting the damn thing into that stupid little tree holder. I seriously don’t understand how four screws and tiny legs are supposed to hold anything up, but for the most part it worked. After we trimmed the bottom off. And then the top off. And then made some other adjustments to the uncooperative branches at the bottom. And top. And maybe the bottom again.
But not too many, because Mom watched us like a hawk. It was too left, now it’s leaning too right. Maybe we could spin it around just a little bit. No, she meant counterclockwise. She always sounded so sweet telling us what to do, holding her Christmas coffee mug like a talisman to ward off her grumbling elves. While Dad and I, sweating profusely, would tighten and retighten those stupid screws until our forearms failed us.
Since my dad died, I do the tree by myself. I feel that it’s important to maintain this family tradition and swear the entire time. My mom does try to help, she puts her coffee mug down, but the last thing I want is for a tree to fall on my 75-year-old mother and knock her into the glass coffee table. Because we still don’t move it. That would be breaking family tradition and just plain sacrilegious.
But seriously, why is there not a company that goes around setting up people’s Christmas trees in those little stands? I know why. Because it sucks so badly that no one even wants to get paid to do it. But you know what? My most vibrant memories of Christmas are of cursing with my dad while putting up the tree. We might not have known how to do it properly, but we figured it out. Together. And I will continue to grumble and swear while I put up my mom’s tree every year. Because that’s our family tradition.
Merisa Sherman is a long time Killington resident, KMS coach and local Realtor. She can be reached at femaleskibum@gmail.com.
