Short Seasons

It was a moment of non-thought, possibly induced by one too many after dinner brandies, possibly just a careless and poorly thought out remark, but when my mother suggested a change in the Christmas routine, my grandmother turned to ice. An artificial tree? she growled, as if my mother had proposed a cross burning on her manicured front lawn, You think that this house should have an artificial Christmas tree? She glared at her daughter, her hands half in and half out of the sinkful of soapsuds and dinner dishes, her eyes narrowed. Have you taken leave of your senses altogether? My mother flushed and nervously lit another cigarette. I just thought .... she began and Nana cut her off in mid sentence. You didn't think at all, she snapped furiously, I've had a fresh cut tree in this house every year of my life and I will for as long as I live! My mother exploded into tears and fled the kitchen, leaving Nana muttering under her breath and scrubbing dishes with a vengeance. Artificial tree, my foot, she spat, no respect for tradition, always looking for the easy way out!

Nana's handyman arrived with the tree a week or so later, 12 feet of it, beautiful and almost perfect in its symmetry. He recut the stem and set it on the tree stand, gave it plentiful water and then spend considerable time - under my grandmother's watchful eyes - uncoiling light strands and arranging them to her satisfaction. She believed in giving the tree time to breathe and adapt to its new surroundings and would put the ornaments on herself the following day. By Christmas Week, the whole downstairs blazed with color and light and smelled of cinnamon, eggnog, and evergreen - the transformation seemed like a miracle to me. Gifts arrived daily, wrapped packages and fruit baskets and silver platters of homemade fudge mounted up under the tree and spilled into the hallway. There were lights in every window, a wreath on both the front and back door, red and white stockings hung from the mantle and carols playing night and day. Nana took her Christmas traditions to heart. All the family would gather on Christmas Eve for presents and a late supper - Christmas dinner would be served the next day with only the best china and silverware on the table. It was, I remember, the only time we ever said grace before a meal.

My mother and grandmother made peace by being respectfully polite to each other. My mother praised the tree and Nana nodded and gave her a neutral "thank you", graciously withholding the "I told you so" but thinking it all the same. No suggestion of an artificial tree was made again. It wasn't exactly peace on earth but for a day in a fractious and quarrelsome family a little short on love and with differences too deep to overcome, it was enough.

By New Year's it was gone, all packed away and stored for the next year, the discarded tree leaning crookedly on the sidewalk awaiting the trashmen, the Christmas Village with it's little houses and the blanket of cotton that served as snow dismantled and back in the attic, the stockings neatly folded and put back in their boxes. The time of transformation was over and it was a new year, a time to start over and try again.

Life is a series of short seasons, change and miracles.