These ornaments, the ones from the small tree, followed me into my own apartment. Even once I entered into a long-term relationship, the one prior to my marriage, we observed the same “tree-hunting” tradition. We would change the tree farm from time-to-time, once or twice going to one owned by a friend, another time going to one that everyone said always had “the best trees!... “they last until Valentine’s Day!” (that particular tree had needles falling off by Christmas Eve). One year, we made our own ornaments, and into the decoration box they went come January.
That relationship ended and I moved in with a girlfriend. That year, we got a tree from the Boy Scouts. It wouldn’t fit into the stand, so our landlord, Don, came to the rescue with a saw on that rainy winter night. We put up the tree, decorated it, and finished the night with wine and “Elf’.
That was the Christmas I met my husband.
And that was the last year of a real Christmas tree.
He’s allergic.
So that first Christmas of being together… not engaged yet… we got up the morning after Thanksgiving, logged on to HomeDepot.com and got a 7-foot, pre-lit artificial tree. When it arrived and we unpacked it, we had to fluff the branches so that it didn’t look bare and sparse. We grabbed my box of ornaments, I described to him when I got each one or what each meant, and we hung it on the tree. That year, he got me four more ornaments for the tree. When we packed everything up in January, including the tree… weird!!!!... those ornaments went into the box as well.
There are two boxes in my attic now. There’s obviously my original ones. His childhood ornaments found their way from his parents’ home to ours at some point. Most have his name on them. And then there are the ones we acquired together. One has our picture in it from when we went on a hot air balloon ride. There are three or four from the year we got married, including a giant Lennox one that would have definitely required a blue spruce tree to make it through the holiday season without collapse. There’s a snowman chef one from the year he cooked for us nearly every night while I attended grad school 90-minutes away. There’s the Winnie the Pooh one we got the year Juliana was born. There are dozens more.
In my attic, waiting for this Christmas.