Decking The Halls

This is both my most and least favorite time of year. I enjoy having the house decorated for Christmas, I just hate doing the decorating. Last week, as you may have read, I spent the better part of three days decorating outside. I strung thousands of lights, and have since had to do some minor repairs. Thank goodness I did the outside last week, since Chicago has plunged into the frozen bowels of winter. Even with all the illumination outside, "Wife" has now declared that we need some lights around the front door too. I hope she enjoys the cold.

Now the job of decking the inside of the house with boughs of holly and jingle bells begins. In a true example of going overboard, we will have four Christmas trees in the house. Yes, I'm serious. Isn't that how many trees all insane people have? We have a small one in the foyer, a bigger one in the living room, a huge one in the family room and a small, crazy one in the basement. What? None on the second floor? Not yet, but we still have time. Each tree has it's own theme, all under the main theme of "nuts".

It's my job to put the lights on the two big trees. It's a job I gave myself years ago. Thankfully the two small trees came pre-lit. For most people, trimming the tree is a holiday tradition they look forward to every year. For me it is an exercise in frustration that I put off as long as I can. Why do you think I'm typing this instead of working on the tree? "Wife" has offered to help, but there's no use dragging her into this. Why do I hate trimming the tree so much? The answer to this, like so many things goes back to my childhood.

Every year, I would watch as the quest for the perfect tree drove my family to madness. It always started at countless tree lots where my parents would debate, ad nauseum, over the qualities of various Douglas Fir trees. This tree was too thin, that tree had a crooked trunk, the other tree had squirrels in it. After three days, they would settle on a tree from the first place they had looked. The tree was tied to the top of the station wagon and taken home for the soul crushing exercise of putting it in the stand. We always had the old school stand with the three bolts that screwed into the tree trunk. My dad would be on the floor with the screw driver, I (as the oldest) would be holding onto the tree, covering my hands with sap and my mom would be in the dining room using a surveyors tool to make sure the tree was perfectly straight. This usually took about an hour and a half and all our Christmas cheer was channeled into profanity laced tirades.

My mom always put the lights on the tree. This is where I learned my psychosis. Most people put lights on a Christmas tree, my mother installed them. Every inch of the tree had to be illuminated. If not, my dad would inevitably come upstairs, take a pull on his cigarette, and proclaim, "there's a dark spot over there." My fixation has grown from there. I put so many lights on the trees that it takes me hours to get one finished. There is no joy in it for me. Even when I'm done, it takes a half bottle of Bailey's for me to relax and enjoy the fruits of my efforts. Even though I tell myself that nothing is perfect, I will spend the entire holiday season critiquing my work.

I do love when the trees are decorated. I can sit in the family room for hours just looking at the Christmas tree. It gives me a small feeling of peace that is usually elusive. The Christmas tree brings back some warm memories, and even though I know that the Norman Rockwell Christmas I always wanted only exists in paintings, for a few minutes it comes to life. Well, I've procrastinated long enough. The trees aren't going to light themselves. Later....Brian