January 3rd, 2050, Looking Back on a Past Christmas
It was the year 2014: A
monumental time in my young life; it was a year of joy and sorrow, of seasonal
and cultural discord, ending with an educating abnormality (our move to
Australia), and coming home. Christmas that year, was for once, however,
absolutely normal. I wasn’t worried as it approached, because, well, Christmas this
year, as opposed to 2013, did not mean moving to a strange land.
I remember clearly our debate over the Christmas tree, that is,
where it should go. I remember my brother, attached to our traditional spot,
clingy and pleading and groping for control of the fatal decision like an
anxious squirrel. To think he is now a marriage counselor! I think it was his
value of tradition, which of course, I always admired, in rare moments when
there wasn’t chaos intertwined.
I felt fresh from the snowy forest where we had cut down the tree;
the crisp air rejuvenated my mind and most importantly my limbs to start doing
something else besides cleaning or typing on my computer. I wish I could have
that youthful energy again. Oh to be young! With my energy renewed, I heartily
joined in the debate. I voted for a new and improved position, which harbored a
bit of the tradition of the places of the past. My grandparents stood by giving
practical, sweet grandparent-advice in phlegmatic, experienced, polite tones.
After much arguing, the atmosphere emanating with depression, seething voices,
and disgust towards the betrayer of tradition, that is, me, my mom called in my
dad, playing the ‘head of the house’ card. Dad was to make the decision. As he
came in like a big square with legs, there was a moment of refreshing silence.
He is still a square now, and hasn’t really changed, although his beard is
white and he has finally grown it out to a Gandalf-like length.
Anyway, it was time. Dad strolled around cheerfully, weighing each
idea in his head. Everybody tried to lobby cunningly, and Grandpa ordered it to
stop right away with his peaceful manner. I had a feeling Dad would chose my
spot (he he) so I waited almost patiently. Well, he did, choosing the homey
feel of the little corner I wanted, in memory of his Long Island home wherein
his family had always put the tree in corner. TJ immediately flopped on the
couch in sorrow with his head down. I felt rather bad. The decision, however,
had been made, and I had a feeling that TJ’s Christmas tree desires would be
fulfilled if he would only look at the tree.
I struggled with Grandpa beneath our lovely tree to drill the
stupid thingamigs into the trunk so it would stand. Many times we did this,
eventually emerging from the tree dripping wet with melted snow slowly dripping
off the branches. Little did I know that the innocent cuteness of the tree
was made possible through the grudging, exhausting experience of those who
delved into the bowels of the darkness beneath.
After this, the decorating began, during which I received many
spiteful remarks from some unnamed siblings. Lights circled the tree bedecked with
electric magic as I struggled to attach the golden star atop the highest bough,
as they say. Soon the whole endeavor was finished, something that felt new and
old at the same time each year.
Millions of present lay underneath, reminding me of a Frank
Sinatra Christmas song. Although they weren’t about Jesus really, there was a
subtle truth in them. They were the carriers of traditions, as Jesus was. To
think how long ago that was, I can’t believe how old Justin Bieber sounds.
That’s old-school “man”.
As I looked at the symmetry and softness, as well as the
ruggedness and strength of the tree, I saw memories. Each light rang a little
bell in my mind. I saw memories of previously discussed arguments,
harmonies, discords, little siblings, love, sorrow, and many other various and
random things. I saw the different parts comprising the tree itself, and I saw
in it the representation of the history of life. Mostly, I gave my love to the
tree, because it had become a symbol of memory and tradition, just as Christ,
by being born, had become a physical symbol of Himself, of Love.
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