Holiday Traditions

Ah, Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. So many traditions revolve around the chilly days between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. They fill us with joy as we look forward to what’s coming. I remember as a kid getting excited the first time the snow fell. I ran outside and stood with my mouth open, catching snowflakes on my tongue. I would sit by the window for hours and watch the neighborhood Christmas lights go up. We would get to see all sorts of family members during that time, too. Aunt Lobelia was always excited to see me. Uncle Chris always had a piece of candy in his coat pocket. My cousins were fun to hang out with, too.

By far the best event of each year, though, was going to cut down a Christmas tree. That’s why, as soon as we had a kid, we bundled the little tike up and carried him out with us to chop down that year’s tree. I can still see it clearly. We went to a local farm called Whittakers, where they took us on a tractor way back to where the endless lines of miniature evergreens were located. It was a little chilly but beautiful. I remember watching the snow fall and dragging the tree through the fields. There was always hot cocoa at the end, too. What an experience.

We’ve gotten a tree as a family every year since my oldest was born. And that tradition is what led us here today. My wife of ten years is currently holding our fourth child. An infant. Screaming. Tears are running down my three-year-old son’s face. He’s cold. My younger daughter is looking serious — even for a four-year-old. Maybe we’re going to die here in this field. It’s practically 50 below. My oldest son is just eight, but he’s determined that this will be the best Christmas tree ever. No, wait. That one’s better. No, that one.

My wife looks like it’s time to pull the plug on the whole experience. Just cut down the nearest tree and let’s get out of here.

“Come on, John,” she says, teeth tight together. I can’t tell if she’s cold or mad …or both.

How did it come to this? Every year until now, the Christmas tree experience has been the greatest part of our year. The cat’s pajamas. The pièce de résistance. What went so wrong here? In despair, I finally cut down a tree — at the great distress of my oldest son, who has thirteen better candidates lined up down the row — and we head for the tractor. I load up the oversized branch, and we take our seats.

“The wood’s freezing, dad,” wails the four-year-old as she sits down, feeling the deathly chill right through her long winter coat, snow pants, and thick Carter jeans.

“The wind!” the older two shout, pulling their hoods over their faces as they hunker down. Come to think of it, it’s definitely windy out here. And snowy. And cold. When did that happen? Wasn’t it like a balmy 50 degrees when we got here twenty minutes ago? Wait a minute. Was it ever that warm when we got a Christmas tree?

As I pay for the tree, I cynically realize that the price went up $10 since last year. My fingers freeze as I awkwardly load the tightly-wrapped bundle on the top of the minivan. I can hear my wife buckling crying kids below. How does she maintain her sanity?

I get in the car and everyone’s quiet, with exception of an occasional sniffle or moan. Dissonant Christmas music quietly plays as a backdrop to the tragic scene. The infant starts screaming again as soon as we get on the road. As I sit in silence, I start to think. In this pensive-yet-frazzled state, suddenly, an emotional memory hits me out of nowhere. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Last year was rough, too. Wait, so was the year before that. There was a foot of snow on the ground a few years ago when we got the tree, wasn’t there? How have I ever thought that this was a fun experience?

I get to thinking about my other Christmas memories from a more …realistic perspective. Did I ever really stand still long enough to catch a snowflake on my tongue? Maybe once. The lights in the neighborhood were nice, but I never sat by a window for more than two minutes to see them. And those iconic Christmas get-togethers with family? Aunt Lobelia always smelled like menthol …and how long has my uncle had those candies in his pocket?

As we pull into the driveway, the van comes to a stop and kids leap out of the car from all sides. They’re already shouting and laughing again. My wife takes a deep breath and shoots me a smile. We open the doors and I start to pull the tree off of the roof. Everyone is jumping up and down in excitement — even the four-year-old seems to have forgotten the cold for the moment. As I sling the tree over my shoulder and start to head inside, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling kids, I realize something.

Christmas traditions are never perfect. They’re almost always overhyped. And yet, we return to them with childlike delight every single year. I smile to myself. The tree’s in the stand now. It looks great — in spite of the obvious flaws that my oldest already pointed out in excruciating detail while I was lying on my back in the muddy snow cutting it down. And yet, somehow, it looks perfect in our living room. Everyone is standing around, admiring. We’re together. The atmosphere is peaceful for more than three seconds.

“Who’s ready to decorate the tree?” Mom asks. There’s a chorus of shouts. Chaos immediately resumes its prominent place in our lives. Here we go again.