December 16

     Half a century ago in Brooklyn, most people didn't cut their own Christmas trees, unless they snuck in to Prospect Park by dark of night to steal a tree. 
     We lived on paved streets. Playing under the Christmas Tree was the closest I came to walking in the magical forests I read about in fairy tales. I loved the tree which was never put up until a day or two before Christmas Eve at the earliest. That brief period when it graced our home was precious beyond measure. My mother was the enemy when it came to the tree. She was fearful of the hot bulbs and, in fairness, she was the one who cleaned up the litter of needles on the floor each day. I don't remember our tree as dry, but as a child I wouldn't have seen that it was. My eye was not yet trained to seek out imperfection—all I could see was the beauty. 
     I long for the days when time passed so slowly. The week between Christmas and New Year's Eve seemed to last a very, very long time then, although on New Years Day, it always seems to have passed too fast. One New Year's Eve, in the afternoon, the dog, fleeing a dose of medicine, ran beneath the tree and toppled it. Oh the horrible, horrible sound of that great tree falling and shattering glass as ornaments impacted with the floor. It seemed like there was water everywhere—a deluge. This flood from the tree stand soaked through paper chains and the delicate cardboard santas which were a giveaway from the bank, but would fetch a pretty penny on ebay today.
     We lived upstairs and my grandparents lived downstairs, each in three rooms. The tree was downstairs on the first floor. If you want to picture the house, think "Archie Bunker".
     When the great tree fell, I saw tragedy, but my mother saw opportunity. In fairness, she also saw an enormous mess which she would have to clean, because the rest of us were useless. She insisted that, rather than righting the tree, it was officially "down" so it was time to remove it from the house. It would have been coming down after New Years anyway, but that was a long time away to a child. I was heartbroken. So was my grandmother, at least I think she was. She made the suggestion that there was a little white artificial tree in the attic, which belonged to her. The little tree could be set up for a day or two "for the child". Probably for the child in her own heart, as much as the granddaughter she loved so much. After the devastation of my tree falling, my heart lifted in hope and exultation. Who knew that this wonderful secret tree had been in the attic all alone? But my mother nixed the idea as too much trouble. Again, in fairness, finding the tree would have involved one of the men getting on a ladder and rooting around in the dusty attic and there was already a mess on the floor when she made this decision.
     In my mind's eye though, I can see that little white tree as clearly as I did in that brief moment of hope and exultation when I pictured it. I can see it as clearly as I would have if my mother had said yes, and my father had braved the rickety ladder and faced down the monsters and dust bunnies who inhabited the attic.