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As February begins, I more than likely will have my $70 Christmas tree up in the corner of my living room.
I plan to get my money’s worth. But the heart of the matter is about anything but money. It’s about love, baby. Give love at Christmas and Christmas will give love back. Especially if it’s a tree you’re loving.
So, let us examine my many motivations.
It’s wonderful to come home to. I’m always happy to see it and I’d like to think it’s happy to see me. It’s perpetually cheery, colorful and aromatic.
And it’s huge (12 feet tall), round and shapely like an idyllic seasonal picture. I guess you could say it’s full-figured. No sickly Charlie Brown tree for me. And don’t even for a minute think I’d harbor a plastic arbor this time of year. Or whatever it is they’re making them out of. I’m a “green” guy and always will be when it comes to a real Christmas tree.
Besides being lovely to look at it, it’s fun to party around. Cabin fever and the winter time blahs and blues can be shortchanged thanks to my beautiful tree’s inherent hospitality and feel-good making. Just being around it lightens your mood, and it’s a great conversation piece. I’ve been entertaining weekly since it went up and I’ve still got a list of friends who haven’t seen it. After the Super Bowl, it’ll be a great reason for them to leave their igloos and come over for a snort.
Before I go any further, I must pay tribute to the man who paved the way for gigantic Christmas trees: my father, John Petric. Did his dad—let’s call him JP1—have one back in the old country, shortly before the Kaiser chased him out of his town to America? Doubt it. But daddy used to buy even taller ones than me because of our cathedral ceiling in the living room. Fill it and folks will come. And gawk. And realize they are in the presence of . . . a big tree. And all that that means.
But it’s more to me than ego. When I was a little boy, I used to really love lying on the couch, hands behind my head, staring at the lights, the shiny tinsel, the beads, the fake shapely icicles dripping off the branches, the angel on the top, the vintage pre-World War II ornaments from Grandma’s Slovenia. Just zoning out on all that glittery beauty put me into my first trances, I’m sure. How delightful, to be 9 years old and tripping out on a veritable Pandora’s Box of Crayola-like madness.
Which still occurs—the trances, that is. Especially with the lights off, the fireplace aglow with cheap natural gas at low flame, “The Sopranos” on the tube with the sound off. Honestly, I get a feeling of peace the likes of which I don’t get looking at, say, Halloween decorations or the Miss Universe pageant.
So it stays for as long as possible or as long as I want it. Sort of an experiment in well-being.
Now for the amoral cost-accounting of my $70 tree. If I want to get my desired 50 cents per day of use out of it, it will remain until mid March since I put it up the first week of December. But if I go for a dollar a day of Christmas love, then it’s coming down right before Valentine’s Day.
Wow! Now there’s an idea: Valentine’s Day underneath the mistletoe!
