This year is the first year I’ve considered not getting a real Christmas tree. My father is holding his heart in Heaven as I write this. It’s like a mortal sin not to trudge through a huge field and choose the perfect tree. It must be fresh, just the right height and bushy, very bushy. The next step is to attempt to stuff this tree into the house and vacuum up all the needles that dropped on it’s right of passage.
This year I’m considering decorating a big palm tree and putting it in my front window. I can hear my mother in Heaven trying to calm my dad down as I write this. “Jimmy, it’s still a tree. Relax,” as she tugs his hand away from his chest.
Our kids are all grown and I really don’t need a specific kind of tree to celebrate. I like palm trees. They like me. They even live in my house! That in itself is a tree that deserves to be decorated. I will choose only special ornaments and lights and decorate it with love and spirit.
I hate to really break my dad’s heart, but there will also not be a train set circling the palm. Our dog, Murphy, would view that as a moving target where he needed to mark his territory.
On a special note, I will play Bing Crosby’s White Christmas in honor of Christmas past. Then I’ll play I’ll Be Home For Christmas and wish my parents were really coming home for Christmas.
Then I’ll cry.