“If my Valentine you won’t be,

I’ll hang myself on your Christmas tree.”

Ernest Hemingway, 88 Poems.

It’s up. It’s new and full like a real tree. It’s dark green, a shade I call Sherwood Forest green, and it looks very impressive.

The old one, which we had for several years, had a personality that had grown tiresome; it was tall and boardwalk-model thin. Somehow, over the years, we failed to connect.

But this year, in a sort of Bernie Sanders revolutionary mood, I had it taken away. We parted amicably.

Advertisement

The new one is very different. It has a buoyant and jovial look to it. It’s very expensive for a fake tree. I hate saying it’s a fake tree; that seems so harsh.

I looked up a few substitute terms: hoax, imitation, mock-up, knockoff. I chose instead “reproduction.” I like that. So this year we have a “reproduction” tree. I would never say that in front of it, but only in type, never out loud, maybe in the yard speaking to a neighbor, but not in front of it, never within earshot. I can tell that in addition to buoyancy and joviality, it reeks of sensitivity.

You’re wincing; let me explain.

In addition to OCD, I have this creepy spiritual affliction called animism: “the attribution of a soul to plants, inanimate objects, and natural phenomena, or the belief in a supernatural power that organizes and animates the material universe.”

OK. That means I can’t kick a rock out of the driveway. I have to pick it up and place it where it won’t trip me. I won’t rake leaves and stuff them in black body bags. Instead, I take pictures of them in their splendid colors and post them on Facebook. Let my lawn man rake. He seems to be normal.

The animism thing is why I talk to these two teddy bears I keep on my bed. I actually face them toward the garden each day, so they can see the changing seasons.

Advertisement

At night, I plug in my iPhone and place it in the bigger bear’s lap for safekeeping. I actually say goodnight to them. Some of you are nodding. It’s OK.

I know it’s crazy, and it’s probably just another part of obsessive compulsive disorder, like counting stairs or touching things in order. But who cares? I don’t frighten children or horses with it. It’s a private thing, like Linus van Pelt’s blue blanket.

This affliction, if you care to call it that, comes strongly into play in this sacred and festive season, and that’s where the tree comes in, i.e. the ornaments.

This morning I opened the box and there they were, decades of collectibles from near and far: the tiny Chinese lantern from San Francisco, the British drummer boy from New York, the many “Teacher” ornaments given to She, who teaches.

There is the Betty Boop glass figure made in Germany, which looks like my oldest; and the six figures from “The Wizard of Oz” my youngest loves.

And there’s the Dixie cup. It was once an angel for the top of the tree back in Los Angeles, handcrafted by my youngest on a hot and smoggy Christmas long ago. It had paper wings and a tiny angel’s head. The adornments disappeared long ago and only the cup remains, but I put it up anyway.

Advertisement

Visitors sometime laugh and say, “OMG, you have a Dixie cup ornament?” I ignore them.

Once there was a clutter of store-bought ornaments I had bought in bulk or bags of six, designed to fill in the holes on lesser trees.

Strange, isn’t it? Things bought in bulk or bags of six somehow lack a soul, and so are easy to dispose of.

This is not true of hand-chosen pieces or Dixie cups that smell of the tiny hands that lovingly crafted them, tiny hands I used to kiss, tiny hands now grown larger and professional.

Still, the scent remains, and not everyone can smell it or feel the vibrations still so strong after decades past.

But only the aged, the seriously sentimental, and of course, the animists, are that lucky. I wonder if I should bring the teddy bears down to see the tree.

Too much? What would you know? You’re so normal.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.


Only subscribers are eligible to post comments. Please subscribe or login first for digital access. Here’s why.

Use the form below to reset your password. When you've submitted your account email, we will send an email with a reset code.

filed under: