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Published on 12/14/1998 All articles from this issue

Christmas tree passion

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By Joan Passarelli

Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans

Even in November my husband was eager to begin. He shopped for ornaments and European candies at Cost Plus. I caught him recording Christmas carols onto cassettes on the sly. "I want to listen to them in my car," he confessed.

He's just a Christmas person. This is his favorite time of year.

And one of the trappings he enjoys the most is the Christmas tree.

We went to get it the day after Thanksgiving. Our whole family, visiting grandparents included, was up and out of the house by 9 to go and find the perfect tree.

And not just any tree lot would do. My husband selected his favorite years ago, for the quality and freshness of its trees, the Christmas carols they play, and the candy canes they give the children. This year the operation had moved from Sunnyvale to San Jose, but that didn't stop us. We drove down 280 and hunted it out.

We looked at the Douglas firs and the silvertip firs, but only with amused smiles.

In our family the only kind of tree to consider is the noble fir: short but soft needles, excellent smell, and just enough space between boughs for the ornaments.

I suggested, as I always do, that we get a 7-foot tree, but my husband held out, as he always does, for a full 8 feet.

We quickly agreed on the beauty in the back row. Oregon raindrops were still clustered on its needles, and its form was perfect.

Upon our return, when my husband and his father set up the tree, the ceiling got marked, as it always does, by the treetop scraping it. He trimmed off the excess, and found it, as he always does, about 3 inches.

Our eyes met, and we laughed. We were both caught up in the excitement.

My husband, his dad, and our son then began stringing the lights. My husband is the director, of course, and makes all artistic decisions, but he welcomes humble, cooperative assistance.

We females avoided them altogether, opting instead to set up the Nativity scene, tie red bows onto the hedge outside, and hang up the wreaths. When it became apparent, as it does every year, that we didn't have quite enough lights for the magnificent work of art we were creating, my daughter and I happily offered to drive to the drugstore.

Once the tree was lit, we all got into the action to hang the ornaments. We started with the many boxes of glass ornaments that my husband has added to every year: sparkling Santas; abstract, ribbon-like designs on spheres; strawberries and grapes; ice-cream cones; tiny red hearts.

The new ones, especially a round orange pumpkin and a crocodile, were acclaimed by all. My husband smiled, pleased but modest, as we admired them.

Then came the less breakable ornaments. "Remember when Grandma brought this back from Africa?" "Remember when you made this in preschool?" "Remember when you gave us this, when we were first married?" "Remember?" "Remember?"

I tease my husband every year about his passion for the Christmas tree and getting it up so early. But something my 5-year-old said this year may have stopped me for good.

"Mommy," she said, "you know what my favorite part of Christmas is?"

"No, what?" I asked, thinking of the long list of toys she expects to get.

"It's when it's dark outside, and we turn off all the lights in the house, except the ones on the tree. And we sit and look at the tree."

It all suddenly seemed very worthwhile.

Passarelli receives many compliments on her family's Christmas tree, and duly defers them all to her husband.