The lot that sells Christmas trees is on the main street in our Village of Ladner. Around the third week in November I begin watching for signs the trees are arriving. First the fence goes up, then the poles for the trees. At last the trees arrive. For me Christmas has begun.
The ritual for selecting the trees is always the same. The Good Husband goes in one direction. I go in the other. Each searching for the perfect tree. It’s a gentle day. I walk through a forest of evergreens. A carpet of cedar chips mingles with the fragrance of the pine needles. The secret to finding the perfect tree is to look for one with the broadest base. It should have the thickest branches. The Good Husband holds up a tree. Too sparse. I spy a fat looking tree with a broad base. It is the one. But then every year the tree we pick regardless of what it looks like, is the perfect tree.
Putting up the tree is a two-day event. The first day is the complex procedure. The Good Husband sets up the tree, and then arranges the lights. Sister Heather has sent me a pair of sparkling red birds. The newest decoration is the first decoration to adorn the tree.
I bring out boxes of memories, and hang them on the tree.
Fifty-five years ago my Mother gave me this tiny copper kettle. It is time worn and part of the spout is missing. I hang it front and center.
I pour a glass of sherry. The tree is taking on a sparkling attitude. I love the whimsey of this monkey.
Birds perch on the branches singing Christmas Carols.
The last decorations are “the angels”. They are my favorite. So much so one year I couldn’t put them away. The Christmas angels spent a lovely year in various rooms in our home.
I adjust a glittering ball or two. Step back and admire The Tree. Sparkling, twinkling, happy Tree.
I’ll wrap more presents This tree is calling for them.
The ritual of the Christmas Tree ends.
Sit by the fire.
Watch A Christmas Carol. The best one with Alister Sim.
The Good Husband and I enjoy our “slow Christmas:”.