Taking Down the Tree

It's funny but to this day I still think a Christmas Tree is magic. Ours never was very gorgeous or fancy. Most of the decorations were homemade or kid made and they developed a tradition of their own. Our tree contained no real theme or scheme with regard to color or decor, it was mainly just memories. Maybe that's where the magic lay. But by the last days of December or the first days of January it loses it magic and its time to take it down again. It usually takes Pam more than one asking and may require a day or two before it actually comes down. Time wins, it always does, and the process starts. I think the ornaments know it's time to go back in the attic. Sitting over in a corner, no lights twinkling, no presents under the limbs, the tree and decorations seem a bit embarrassed to be out there without their magic after Christmas. I suppose their magic comes from anticipation of gathered family, the joy of presents to be given, the love of memories made--- the single red-striped straw that was "made" in kindergarten (it always goes on first), the ugly non-working light which goes on top (last), and our Wizard of Oz characters: Dorothy, Tin Man, The Lion, and The Scarecrow ornaments my mom made. There are things from first grade, second grade, even up to college, many kept only because they annoyed Pam or made the boys laugh. But this odd assembly with no apparent reason to be together has been together for twenty-five or more years now. The only thing they have in common is us and somehow they work their magic for us as a kind of thank-you for a few more weeks of life each December. But it doesn't last long. Its all soon enough packed in the zipper bags and shoe boxes and plastic crates and for the tree itself a rather narrow box. It is stripped of its ornaments, has its limbs folded up in unnatural looking positions. It looks rather sad, stark and naked. So its is folded and stuffed in a box and shoved into a dark place in the corner of the attic. That trip up into the attic in early January is a somewhat sad routine but I tried to reassure the boxes that I'd remember where they were and I'd see them again next November after Thanksgiving. I added that I hoped they had a nice rest but seemed to hear (I think it was the voice of Oz's Scarecrow) "we don't need much rest, we didn't do anything this year." True, with no kids or grand kid around on Christmas eve or morn this year they only had a couple of just-past-middle agers to work with. I reminded them that everyone has an off year now and then so go ahead and rest while you can. They didn't seem to believe me. So I sat down on a box of old Sports Illustrated and said, "Look, I know you may not believe this but I know how you feel. I live with an odd assortment of people who are together only because the one who made us put us together. We don't have that much in common but we have each other. It's called the church. We look kinda silly sometimes by ourselves but when you get us together some real wonderful stuff can happen. And tree, you and I may have the most in common, one day someone will strip me naked, fold my arms in an awkward position, stuff me in a narrow box and put me in a dark place. But if I read the story right, I won't be forgotten either. So hang in there until it's your time again." "You too," I think I heard them say. "You too." Terry