The saddest chore of all was the de-ornamentation of our Christmas tree.
Since this was the first Christmas Jan and I have spent at the Cape, we wanted our Christmas tree to be the shining center of our decorating efforts.
Our tree came from down the road at Sprout Farms. Mr Sprout is our garden flower provider of choice come spring, but we seldom visit his wonderful location in the other seasons. It was a joy to pull the car down into his tiny cul-de-sac and browse through his selection of trees. We chatted and soon learned of the passing of his dog Jade. She always greeted us enthusiastically whenever we pulled in to load up with trays of Impatiens. I won't pretend that Jade's greeting was reserved only for us, but it was fun to wrestle with her strong Boxer frame as she playfully pressed her muscular body against my leg.
The imagination that Mr Sprout employs to display his wares is impressive. He has a genius for re purposing wooden pallets, plywood, and shelving to stage his Cape Cod grown produce. This December, in the area that usually hosts our flowers, were a selection of Douglas Fir trees hanging like bowling pins about to be placed on the parquet. It was the perfect way to display the Christmas trees, and they swayed and twirled as I walked between their aromatic branches.
I learned with dismay that Jan and Mom had nominated me as 'selector of the tree' in my absence. Selection of the perfect tree would be defined by some combination of height, width, symmetry, colour, and some other characteristic that would become known once the tree standing in the living-room. A wave of Christmas tree anxiety washed over me and did not dispel until my eyes lay upon the perfect coniferous specimen.
After a brief vetting, the tree was bundled up, hoisted on to the top of the Outback and trundled down the road the house. Once it was standing in front of the main windows in the living room, Mom, Jan and I marveled at the beauty of it. Before long, fragile Christmas ornaments were plucked from their long dark sleep inside tissue paper filled boxes and tenderly placed among the evergreen branches. The light strands, a multitude of tiny pin-prick star lights, were then woven into the deep green branches. Behold - our Christmas tree.
Mom has gone back to Bolton, so Jan and I are left with the task of running the trimming process in reverse. There is no mystery or air of anticipation in this task. Where upon each placing of a single ornament or garland on the tree yields a new spectacle, the process in reverse reveals a drab green skeleton that showers the floor with dry pine needles upon each touch.
Finally the tree is pushed out the door and attached to the top of the Outback for the final trip. It seemed like such an ignoble fate for such a wonderful friend. It had stood in a place of honour in our home and carefully guarded the presents underneath. It had stood as a symbol of our love for each other and the perennial joy that surrounds this season. Now I was pulling away the kayak straps to toss it into the recycling pile at the Barnstable dump. There was no reverential way to do this. Holding the tree above my head, my boots sucking in the mud with each step, I threw it among the other trees already laying there.
Chore finished.
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