Even as a child, in the not-so-green 1970's, I remember traditions that helped make a Green Christmas.
My mom would bundle up my sister and me and take us for a walk down the block to Mrs. Randall's house. Mrs. Randall was an older woman who had a tree farm. She also was the only person in the neighborhood who would hand out apples on Halloween.
The four of us (mom, dad, Melissa and me) would pick out our tree (which I'm fairly certain wasn't covered with pesticides) and take it home, where my dad would then secure it to the bannister for dear life. (This was the result of my cousins and I running around our living room one December evening and knocking over the tree. Our parents came back from a night on the town to find all of their precious decorations in pieces on the floor.)
My mom would get our ornaments from the attic and my sister and I would run to the box and argue over which ones were ours.
We carefully hung each ornament, reminiscing about where it came from and fighting for prime front-of-the-tree real estate. Early on, my mom and dad made up a rule that was pretty eco-friendly -- only ornaments with meaning could go on the tree.
The ones I remember most clearly were the angels. Mine was green, Melissa's was pink. Although even that was debatable. They were gifts from my grandmother.
We had antique ornaments -- the kind made from glass -- from our neighbors, The Jobin's. They were very delicate and only mom was allowed to hang those up.
As we got older, my parents started a new tradition. Each year, we'd get an ornament representing something from that year. Like the year I went to Ireland with my mom and she got me a lamb. It's a tradition that I continue with my niece and nephew.
Our magnificent tree towered above us, its festive branches protecting us and our gifts while each ornament -- and its memories -- glowed from the lights. We marvelled at our tree every chance we got.
As the years went on, our real tree was replaced by a fake one because of my sister's asthma. Now we know that a fake tree is worse than a real one because of all the BPA's and formaldehyde used to make it.
Now in New York City, my Christmas trees come from city sidewalks. Temporary forests magically appear outside drug stores and Starbucks. This year, John and I went to find one in the arbor outside a local deli. Actually, I had already picked it out. It was this big, round, fat Fraser fir that I had seen on the corner for weeks. It was meant for us. Every time I passed it, it said, "Take me home!" (And "Don't settle for the asking price!")
The salesman saw how much I loved it and gave us a great deal. Like Upper East Side Paul Bunyans (or so we thought), we declined to wrap the tree in plastic (of course) and shlepped our new green friend four blocks to our building, where we carried it up six flights to our apartment. Once inside, we realized we had the perfect tree . . . and the smallest stand.
I went back to the nursery-deli to buy a bigger one. Our salesman looked both ways and told me to take it . . . his boss wasn't there. I thanked him profusely! We now call him Deli Claus.
Every night I lay on my couch and gaze at the ornaments. A penguin in a pink tutu from my dear friend Ruth in Ireland. A glittered sea shell from a trip to Florida to visit my family. A giant Paddington Bear - my most favorite bear of all. And a personal favorite -- a giant sequined ball with a snowman on it, taken when I was living in Washington, DC during a visit to see the National Christmas Tree. Many of the ornaments had fallen and broken and this was one of the ones we salvaged.
These ornaments allow me to remember my mom, dad, sister, good friends and memorable trips that have contributed to our special tree.
And every night I wander over to Mrs. Randall's house in my mind and remember the amazing childhood Christmases that I was blessed with.
I wish you all the greenest of holidays with lots of memories!
My mom would bundle up my sister and me and take us for a walk down the block to Mrs. Randall's house. Mrs. Randall was an older woman who had a tree farm. She also was the only person in the neighborhood who would hand out apples on Halloween.
The four of us (mom, dad, Melissa and me) would pick out our tree (which I'm fairly certain wasn't covered with pesticides) and take it home, where my dad would then secure it to the bannister for dear life. (This was the result of my cousins and I running around our living room one December evening and knocking over the tree. Our parents came back from a night on the town to find all of their precious decorations in pieces on the floor.)
My mom would get our ornaments from the attic and my sister and I would run to the box and argue over which ones were ours.
We carefully hung each ornament, reminiscing about where it came from and fighting for prime front-of-the-tree real estate. Early on, my mom and dad made up a rule that was pretty eco-friendly -- only ornaments with meaning could go on the tree.
The ones I remember most clearly were the angels. Mine was green, Melissa's was pink. Although even that was debatable. They were gifts from my grandmother.
We had antique ornaments -- the kind made from glass -- from our neighbors, The Jobin's. They were very delicate and only mom was allowed to hang those up.
As we got older, my parents started a new tradition. Each year, we'd get an ornament representing something from that year. Like the year I went to Ireland with my mom and she got me a lamb. It's a tradition that I continue with my niece and nephew.
Our magnificent tree towered above us, its festive branches protecting us and our gifts while each ornament -- and its memories -- glowed from the lights. We marvelled at our tree every chance we got.
As the years went on, our real tree was replaced by a fake one because of my sister's asthma. Now we know that a fake tree is worse than a real one because of all the BPA's and formaldehyde used to make it.
Now in New York City, my Christmas trees come from city sidewalks. Temporary forests magically appear outside drug stores and Starbucks. This year, John and I went to find one in the arbor outside a local deli. Actually, I had already picked it out. It was this big, round, fat Fraser fir that I had seen on the corner for weeks. It was meant for us. Every time I passed it, it said, "Take me home!" (And "Don't settle for the asking price!")
The salesman saw how much I loved it and gave us a great deal. Like Upper East Side Paul Bunyans (or so we thought), we declined to wrap the tree in plastic (of course) and shlepped our new green friend four blocks to our building, where we carried it up six flights to our apartment. Once inside, we realized we had the perfect tree . . . and the smallest stand.
I went back to the nursery-deli to buy a bigger one. Our salesman looked both ways and told me to take it . . . his boss wasn't there. I thanked him profusely! We now call him Deli Claus.
Every night I lay on my couch and gaze at the ornaments. A penguin in a pink tutu from my dear friend Ruth in Ireland. A glittered sea shell from a trip to Florida to visit my family. A giant Paddington Bear - my most favorite bear of all. And a personal favorite -- a giant sequined ball with a snowman on it, taken when I was living in Washington, DC during a visit to see the National Christmas Tree. Many of the ornaments had fallen and broken and this was one of the ones we salvaged.
These ornaments allow me to remember my mom, dad, sister, good friends and memorable trips that have contributed to our special tree.
And every night I wander over to Mrs. Randall's house in my mind and remember the amazing childhood Christmases that I was blessed with.
I wish you all the greenest of holidays with lots of memories!
1 comment:
I love "Deli Claus" and of course you didn't pay asking price! Love this story.
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