It was the week before Christmas many years ago. I came home from school to an empty house one afternoon, anxious to see the live, sweetsmelling tree our family had put up the night before and decorated it with ornaments old and new, some left by grandparents, lacey gems not so pretty by then, but with memories and stories of Christmases Past.
There had been the usual tinsel debates about precise hanging versus random tosses and the stringing of lights. Back then one dying bulb would extinguish an entire string. I was in the replacement bulb squad.
Often, as we worked, we would join Kate Smith in the carol she was singing on the parlor radio . We were always a close family, but on Christms tree night we were even closer.
I came home from school to an empty house the next afternoon, anxious to visit the sweetsmelling tree we’d put up and sang to the night before. I walked briskly through the house toward the living room and swung open the door.
THE TREE WAS DOWN! I couldn’t have been more shocked even if Santa was lying there unconscious on Mom’s new oriental rug. I thought, ”This could be the year the tipsy tree ruined Christmas.”
Somehow I got the fallen fir vertical again, removed a few broken ornaments and twisted it around so, if it decided to topple again, the wall might hold it up. Then I left. I didn’t want to tell the tale of the fallen tree just then. Some others might feel it was a sad omen.
I thought it might be okay to fess up late on Christmas Day after we’d oohed and aahed at the brilliantly lit symbol and the thoughtful presents.
When Dad began to carve the turkey and Mom was sqeezing the last big dishes of dressing and cranberries onto the table, I blurted out, “I saved Christmas this year!” Which, of course, turned heads in my direction.
“Our tree, that beautiful tree, fell down the day after we’d decorated it. I found it on the floor and got it back up quickly before anyone else saw it or it might have ruined Christmas for us.” I confessed.
There was a moment of shocked silence and then my older brother Jim, the quiet one, spoke. ”I raised it off the floor the day after that and didn’t want to mention it either,” he confessed.
Dad put down his carving knife.”When I picked it up yesterday morning,” he confessed, ”I nailed the stand to the floor, right through the oriental rug.”
“I thought something was going on,” my sister Anne said, “I’ve been straightening tinsel all week.”
“And I’ve been sweeping up broken ornaments every day,” Mom said. I was going to write a complaint letter to a clumsy Santa. And what’s this about nails through my new oriental rug?”
.
Imagine That 