You can never pack up Christmas

By John Howell
Posted 1/24/17

“Oh,” Carol said with a resigned sigh, “I was hoping to get one more night.”

That was out of the question unless I wanted to get the ornaments out of the box and start redecorating.

We …

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You can never pack up Christmas

Posted

“Oh,” Carol said with a resigned sigh, “I was hoping to get one more night.”

That was out of the question unless I wanted to get the ornaments out of the box and start redecorating.

We always put off taking down the Christmas tree, no less putting away the accoutrements of Christmas. I’m not sure why. In some ways it’s great to have Christmas in the rear view mirror. The hectic rush of lining everything up before it’s too late, is over and there’s a stretch – sometimes a snowy wintry stretch – before the days become notably longer and attentions turn outdoors.

But we’ve always held onto the decorations of Christmas, finding taking them down a submission to reality that even Christmas comes to an end. Such custom hasn’t transcended to our kids. Ted had his tree out the door the weekend after Christmas, and on a visit to his house Sunday I found no vestige of the day other than the fireplace screen with its Santa theme. At first I thought he had succumbed to sentiment, but quickly realized it had been left out for an entirely practical reason. Their dog, Nash, is intrigued by the fireplace and this was the best way to keep him out.

We first talked about taking down the tree three weeks ago. I knew we wouldn’t do it then, but somehow talking about it acknowledged that at some time we’d need to do it. I found the tree lights on when I got home and I know if Carol gets up early, as she often does, she’ll turn them on. It’s those early morning moments that I believe she treasures the most, a time when the house is asleep except for the tapping and wheezing of steam heat. It’s a time to plan for the day and the tree and its lights are a beacon.

I decided Saturday was going to be the day. As soon as I removed the first ornament – a mini guitar the kids had given Carol – I knew the time had come. The needles fell, leaving a bare stick. I pulled on the first string of lights and the needles popped off as if they were spring-loaded. The floor was covered with them and I knew that weeks after we would still find them in the corners of the couch and along the baseboards.

It was at about that point in dismantling Christmas that Carol arrived on the scene. In silent resignation she got out the box for the ornaments, saving a couple of wire angels that she likes to leave on display. She collected plates, candles and table runners. The stockings were folded. Christmas was being packed away, although the tree, nearly bare, was still in the corner.

The remaining ornament, the silver star, was furlong on its lofty perch. It would have to wait until I lifted the tree from its bucket. The tree was surprisingly light. It was prickly. The needles kept falling, leaving a trail across the porch and down the driveway. I placed it alongside the fence, suspecting it would be there for a while and feeling guilty for having pushed the tree collection. My consolation is knowing I’m not alone. I still see a few Christmas trees across the city. We’re not alone. Some years when one storm after the next keeps city crews busy, our trees have made it until spring yard waste collections resume. By then you can’t wait for Christmas to end.

But for now it’s still close, a time when memories are fresh. Maybe that is what makes packing up Christmas difficult and rediscovering everything – some dried needles are sure to be in the box as well – so rewarding when the season returns.

As for the lights, we keep some. The kids used to kid me that I found it too easy to leave them up year-round. Don’t be surprised to find them twinkling some August night…a Christmas reminder or, if you prefer, a prelude.

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