It’s Dec. 6 as I write this, and I think I’m as ready for Christmas as I can be. Eggnog anyone?

It will be the first Christmas without She who loved Christmas. She grew up surrounded by a big, happy French Maine family, with a Catholic French mother who was born in Quebec, and knew which fork to use at dinner, and how to play “Silent Night” on a violin.

I, on the other hand, grew up with five Irish American men to whom Christmas Eve meant drinking whiskey from coffee cups, and then stumbling gracelessly into midnight Mass with their embarrassed girlfriends. Yes.

Oh yeah, the tree. 

It’s a big one this year, about seven feet tall, and cost more than the one we shared for several years.

This one I bought at Home Depot, not the cheeriest of places at Christmas. Most of the customers are working men in weathered clothes looking for hammers and nails, lumber and paint, and ladies buying poinsettia plants. I hope they know that the leaves of those plants are toxic to their dogs. Merry to you.

Behold the stranger in a bright red duffel coat standing in the small Christmas tree section, surrounded by faux trees fully lit and covered with faux snow and ice.

I use the word “faux” because it’s gentler than “fake,” don’t you think? I mean, it is Christmas after all, that December holiday that’s all about gentleness?

Gentleness? Then I remembered Sister Rosana told us about Herod, who ordered his troops to kill all the boy babies in Bethlehem, and how Joseph couldn’t get a room for Mary, and wound up in a barn with cows and dogs.

I noticed that there were about six giant plastic Santas in the required red wool costume. By the way, why don’t Home Depot and Walmart have a live Santa? Oh well.

There I  was, an old corner boy from Christmases past, standing in a small space of faux Christmas trees, listening to the late Bing Crosby on the distant speakers sing “I’ll be home for Christmas.” Older folks, and I mean, really older folks, remember how that one made Christmas tears flow during World War II. Tears flowed in the Devine house I’ll tell you.

So there I stood full of memories waiting for someone to assist me. I am after all a fresh widower. Don’t they know that? I guess I don’t look like a widower. Is there a Santa’s lap for widowers to sit on and whisper in his ear, “I want my wife back?” Guess not.

I’m sure that most older folks passing by know one when they see one, standing in front of the frozen food section for so long, mumbling to himself, or pinching avocados and talking to the potatoes. Get used to it. Move on. Nothing to see here.

Oh yes, the tree.

They all kind of looked the same, kind of sad, standing next to their faux brothers and sisters, all gaily plugged in with multi-colored lights flashing in a kind of sad harmony, like a chorus from “The Lawrence Welk Show.”

Finally I picked one out, and grabbed a nice little lady in an orange apron who was passing, and she got a young fella to help me take it to the car.

And so, Christmas begins once more. Eggnog anyone?

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.