O, Tannen-gone

Though October has barely begun, my holidays have been approved and Ter and I have roughed out a plan to avoid the Christmas crunch in December by getting a few things done in November, instead of waiting until the tree goes up to get into the spirit.

I was thinking about our tree, which led to thoughts on other trees, which recalled the memory of seeing the corpse of one lying abandoned on the sidewalk after last Christmas. It had been a live tree, once festooned with more than the few stubborn strands of tinsel clinging tenaciously to the crispy brown branches, the revered centerpiece to a joyous celebration of light, kinship and goodwill toward men.

And then its moment was over, its purpose served, its presence suddenly inconvenient—so it finds itself tossed out with the garbage. Worse, without the garbage, as if it had never known warmth and comfort in the bosom of its adoptive family.

I wanted to cry.

Then I wondered what happened to Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, the one that Linus said just needed a little love. Was that sad, spindly twig shown love and made beautiful only to be stripped and cast cruelly aside when the season was over?

No, I say!

That tree was planted in the Browns’ back yard. Charlie and his family tended it for years, until it grew tall and strong in a testament to the healing power of love, and Charlie’s kids were told the tale of how their dad rescued an orphaned sprig to see it now as a majestic addition to the family’s back-forty.

Then I remembered that it wasn’t actually a living tree—it had been cut and nailed to its rickety little criss-cross stand—so I got depressed all over again.

It’s not good to think overmuch.