This was going to be the first Christmas we didn’t have a tree. Regardless of what religion I was practicing at the time, I have always had a big Christmas tree, emphasis on big. Every place I have ever called home has had high ceilings. Except this one. So it’s been a penchant, luxury and tradition of mine to get the tallest, fullest tree I could find each and every year. My son has grown up with this practice and it’s been because of him we continued it well into his college years.
But this year, with the move to a condo with standard height ceilings, the tree hung in the balance. To get or not to get has been the on-again, off-again debate in this household. There are so many reasons not get one, including the ornaments being stowed away in a stuffed storage unit, not to mention lack of space in the smaller living quarters, the expense and labor of the process–all of which is underscored by the mother of all reaons–my son’s absence. He will not be home for Christmas this year. We are traveling to him, instead. So like the old rhetorical question goes: If a Christmas tree sits in Erie and no son is there to see it, is it really worth it?
I say yes. So after some more discussion, my husband agreed to a tree. Of course, it’s only 2 and a half feet tall and sits in a pot of dirt for future planting, but it’s a tree, gosh darn it. And once I gussy it up a bit, it’ll rival Charlie Brown’s.