*published Dec. 22, 2005
It's so Norman Rockwell-ian, you could gag. And so different from life with the Carlines.
Our visits to Christmas tree lot start in the driveway, where my husband, Dale, asks, "Where are we going?"
I give him the option of several lots that I've driven past. He looks at me and says, "Where are we going?"
Picking one, I give him directions and we're on our way. Once at the lot, we walk through the rows of trees. I point to a tree and say, "What about this one?"
Dale says, "Okay."
Like most couples, Dale and I have different shopping strategies. I want to review all of the trees, pick a few that we like and choose the best of those. Dale wants to get a tree and go home. After repeated rounds of the above exchange, I finally say, "Let's get this one," and Dale is happy.
Our son, Marcus, has never contributed to these conversations. From the time he could speak and give us his opinion, he has declined to do so. When I ask him for his opinion, his answer is the same: a shrug of the shoulders. Apparently, he feels unqualified to judge Christmas trees, although I suspect he feels he knows everything else.
So, our tree picked and paid for, we take it home. Dale puts it in the stand, while I try to help by holding it straight while he tightens the base. This part would go a lot smoother if I would stop letting the tree lean unexpectedly, and if Dale would accept that I can't hear his deep voice and just get a microphone.
I imagine Norman putting his brush down at this point and becoming an accountant.
Dale and Marcus then scamper off and leave me to decorate. I used to try to encourage them to help me, but it never worked. When Marcus was young, he just wanted to sort the ornaments by size, shape and color; now he has important video games to play. Dale feels that the outside lights are his domain, and their yearly arrangement drains his creativity for any inside decorating.
So I turn on the carols, pour myself a glass of wine and spread the ornaments on the table, after which I make infinite trips to the tree, hanging each ball, each bell, each angel. I reminisce about where I got each one, and what I was doing, and I reflect on where I am now. And my Norman Rockwell fantasy rekindles for next year.