AFTER CHRISTMAS

by

Kathleen Glassburn

            A noble fir trimmed for fullness and shape displays most of our collection of ornaments accumulated over more than three decades of marriage. I’ve thrown away several dustpans of dropped needles. The dried pine smell pleases me, but I decide it’s time to take the tree down. January’s schedule beckons. At least my husband’s January schedule beckons.

            Tired of listening to carols, I put on Mozart sonatas to play in the background. These decorations come off faster and easier than going on. It’s like finding an unknown destination in a car. The return trip is always quicker. An hour later, multi-colored, sparkling baubles gather on the dining room table, site of so many holiday family meals when everyone used to be present. They’re ready to be packed away, causing me to wonder, Will they be brought out next December?   

            The tree has become just a tree, so I ask my husband to come out of his office to help me. He holds the base of the trunk and I hold the lighter top as we carry it to the backyard where it awaits a yet undecided fate. This is the first task we’ve done together since we bought the tree. I even attached and removed the lights by myself this time. Will it go to a Boy Scouts’ Recycling Fundraiser at the elementary school our kids attended? Will it be chopped up, put in the yard waste, and hauled away? Or, will it be forgotten for several months, getting soggy with Seattle’s rain?

Taking a break, I go out to the mailbox, come back into the kitchen, and make myself a cup of coffee. Sitting down with the mail, I notice an ad for places in America to visit:

St. Augustine, San Diego, Santa Fe. I gaze at the pictures, sipping my afternoon pick-me-up. Its nutty aroma provides a bit of pleasure.

*

            On a cold Saturday morning, mid-December, before we went to our usual Christmas tree lot, my husband asked, “Wouldn’t it be easier to buy an artificial one?”

            “The kids would hate that.”

            “Do you think they’d even notice?”

            I shrugged and handed him the keys to our SUV.

            Within ten minutes of our arrival, the first appropriate tree I found was purchased. I determined that at seven feet tall it would be perfect next to the piano.

            My husband rushed back to the parking area and opened the tailgate.

The salespeople we’ve often visited, a couple close to us in age, proudly informed me that they’d recently retired from “real work.” A sign on their new mobile home announced: “The Wandering Willoughbys.”

I’d never known their last name.

As we chatted, they explained that their Christmas tree gig was longer this season since they had more time. Then they went on to tell me that the previous summer they had traveled around with carnivals–he helped do set-up and maintenance, she worked in the offices. Their longest employment had been for six weeks at the Washington State Fair in Puyallup. Seemingly thrilled with their unencumbered life, both wore overalls with heavy winter jackets and stocking caps.  

“Sure beats the heck out of sitting in an accounting office,” he said.

            “This knocking around is a lot of fun,” she said. “I don’t miss the bank at all.”

            “Next week,” the Wandering Willoughbys said in unison, “we’re heading for our family celebration in Texas.”

            I thought, How many people do they tell this to?

“And after that?” I asked.

            “Who knows?” Mr. Willoughby grinned.

Mrs. Willoughby chimed in with, “No marathon tax season.”

            I glanced back at my on-task husband.

He shot me a look of impatience, anxious to return to the files he’d brought home.

We used to take lots of trips—California, Hawaii, Europe. Every year I flew to New York City twice to order merchandise for the shop. My husband used to go on fishing trips with his buddies. Lately, he can’t even imagine taking a trip, let alone retiring from his law practice. He has a mission to keep at it as long as possible, yet can’t explain to me why this is. According to our former plan, I sold my children’s clothing shop a couple years ago to a younger woman who expressed elation at the opportunity. I had felt the same way when I bought it. Still, I was elated to let it go. Since the kids moved away and, for whatever reason, my husband had a change of heart, a void has opened. What’s next for me? For us?

            On the way home with the tree, I told him about the Willoughby’s adventures. “Don’t you think it would be fun to move around like that?”

            “You’ve got to be kidding…carnivals?”

            “Well…go anywhere?” I pressed.

            He hmphed.  

*

            Taking a last sip of coffee, I hope the caffeine will bolster me. I give the travel ad another glance, stand, and traipse off to the attic where empty storage boxes are gathered. I make several trips up and down the stairs, bringing them to the dining room where I can begin the pack away.

There are well over one hundred ornaments on the table. Each holds a memory. I divide them into groups in an attempt to create some semblance of order. Handcrafted ones from annual summer art festivals cluster together. My mother bought several decorations, many as gifts for her grandchildren. There’s the teddy bear perched on a sled, numerous varieties of Santa Claus–painted wood, stuffed fabric, hard plastic–lots of toy soldiers standing tall, colorful rocking horses, and tiny nutcrackers ready to chomp. These used to be the kids’ favorites.

            Some of the ornaments reflect my parents’ joyful trips after my siblings and I were grown. A Greek doll couple in dancing costumes, red silk lanterns from Hong Kong, and two made in England which we received the first year of our marriage–a once-shiny ceramic gingerbread boy and his partner, the chipped ceramic angel girl.

            I did intend for most of these treasures to be divided between our children when they moved away. They have their own way of decorating–Crate & Barrel–and speak disparagingly when I show them yarn-embroidered felt partridges. A box of discards remains untouched in the attic because I can’t part with them. Mother’s sweetgrass lady from Charleston rests beside a birch bark cornucopia from some unknown place, neither of them particularly liked by me, but too precious to throw away.

            Mother died this past year at the age of eighty-nine, after spending too many months talking nonsense to photos from her bed in a nursing home. She was the last of our parents to depart.

            I bought a new top for the tree this year. A red spire that I hoped would remind my husband of his boyhood family tree. When he used to talk about such things, he’d told me about their spire. He never commented on this one. I debate about whether to put it safely away supported by Styrofoam in its own special container, or to let it mingle with the others. I really don’t want it to break so opt for preferential treatment.

            Over the years, I’ve added to our collection with crystal garlands, miniscule brass musical instruments, Egyptian blown glass–an elephant, a pink swan, shapely bells, each highlighted in gold. They’ve been expensive, reflecting our improved means.

            There’s also a handcarved cross, a silver star, and the three that always bring tears, given to us by our groomer: clumps of combed-out hair pushed into clear, sparkly-labeled balls, from dogs who romped through our lives along with noisy kids. Those dogs are gone, and in the interest of freedom that’s never come, we chose not to get another one. Thanks to the groomer, a part of each pet has continued to join us.  

            For several moments, I look at a red gingham-framed photo of the children–our son a toddler, his big sister a busy four-year-old–both spellbound at the Christmas magic that Mommy and Daddy created, both still innocent and unquestioning. A long time ago, I crafted this memento and for some reason placed it on the back of the tree. At our roast beef dinner for four, without a single elderly present, our daughter scanned it and found the picture, carefully took it off a branch, and placed it front and center. She said, “I want this conspicuous on every tree from now on.”

Our son, actually paying attention, said, “Your real trees!”

            I continue to gaze at this photo for a minute before pulling out fresh tissue paper and wrapping it tightly.

            The gingerbread boy and the angel girl have been saved for last. Occasionally, one of them gets lost. Will that happen this time? Last year, I found him all alone on a February morning, stuck to the tree dumped in a corner of the backyard. Another year, I caught her jammed under the dining room buffet, when I took time to dust in March. It makes me wonder about other sprees they’ve gone off on separately. Should I package them side-by-side this go-round?

The boy and girl await my decision. I put them together in bubble wrap. Maybe this time will bring some joint adventures…not on Christmas trees or hanging out in hidden spots, but their own surprising places…together.

My husband comes out of his office. He puts his hands on my shoulders, his breath warming the back of my neck. “It’s a lot of work, isn’t it, Lisa?”

“It’s our history.”

“How about we take a walk in the village. There’s going to be a beautiful sunset tonight. We can stop along the way for something to eat. Anything you’d like.”

“I’d love to go for a walk with you, Peter.” It’s a start. Maybe we can talk about some important things. Maybe when I tell him about the trip to Santa Fe that I’m going to make, he’ll decide to come with me.    

THE END