CHRISTMAS IN JUNE

Written at Zee's Writing Studio 6/6/12, based on this New Yorker cover from December 19, 1942.

                                                                                                       
Growing up, our family had a tradition of trudging out in knee-high snow to cut down our own Christmas tree.  There was an abundance of pine trees scattering the woods that surrounded our farm in Mecklenburg, so much so that we would have endless debates about which was the perfect tree.  Coming across an old family photo of my sisters and I in front of one of those trees, circa early 70’s, made me realize how unfathomably skewed our perception of perfect was! This tree was a monstrosity; it looked like an overgrown long-armed Texas cactus gone seriously awry.  One long branch jutted out, mid-tree, and then grew straight up, forming a right angle.  Then there was a huge gap before another branch twisted toward the back.  Picture us heaving a thick rope of silver garland over it and you get the picture.  The absurdity of it all, coupled with the realization that what I saw as a child was so far from reality, made me laugh till I peed myself.  I made enlarged copies for my three sisters and felt such a sense of glee and accomplishment when, they too, peed themselves laughing.  It’s become a tradition at Christmas for me to prop this photo proudly in between the branches of my most-definitely-finally-perfect Christmas tree.  I wonder what my daughter will see when she looks back at photos of these trees...
It was the experience and ritual, more than the actual tree, however, that was so rich for me.  We did so little as a family that this outing took on unreal proportions in my mind and heart.
My sisters and I would stuff ourselves in our bulky one-piece Snowmobile suits, turning us into mini Michelin men.  Trying to move through thigh-high snow was a little tricky when you couldn’t bend your knees, but we reveled in it, nevertheless.  Then there was the dilemma of what to do, when deep into woods you realized you had to pee.  Oh, the chore of waddling back to the house and peeling off this cocoon that was now stuck to your skin and clothes because you were sweating and freezing at the same time and then having to pull and tug it all back on! So daunting! So, inevitably, I would just stand there and pee. Hey, at least it was warm!
My Dad had little patience for our pickiness, (I wonder if that’s how we wound up with the cactus) so once a decision was made he swiftly whipped out his rusty hand-saw, cut down the tree and dragged it back to the house by its trunk.  I loved how the tree swept the snow behind it, making a path to follow.  I resisted the urge to leap on the back as if it were a chaise and as if I were Cleopatra.  My Dad didn’t go for those sorts of antics, so I kept those ideas to myself.  I wonder how different I would be if he did--if he played along or even encouraged such a thing?  I used to spend a lot more time longing for the past to be different but not so much anymore.  I am more aware of how doing so robs me of what’s actually happening right now.  Or, as someone said, how you can’t start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one.  Can I accept that which I can’t change? Yes, I can.  Would it have been better if it had been different?  I honestly don’t know.  The part of me that felt hurt, ignored, unappreciated and unloved tells me yes.  Do I like who I am today? Yes; so there you go.  I know that the more I can accept what is without needing to assign meaning to it one way or another, the happier and more peaceful I am.  And honestly, everything is a matter of perspective--the stories we make up about people, places and things and the meanings we attach to them.  It’s all in how you see it.  Kind of like those Christmas trees of my youth....