Column Working hard to be festive, all by myself
By JEANNETTE BATZ
Ungrateful pine needles pricked me
as I wrapped the seventh string of lights around the boughs. There,
I said, sitting back on my heels and rubbing my tender palms against my jeans.
It was beautiful, I could tell already. Each light carefully positioned,
starting deep inside the tree. Crawling forward, I reached under the branches
and flipped the switch.
They glowed like illicit South African diamonds for about two
seconds. Then all seven strands went out at once. Curses finally spent, I
resorted to logic: The failed string must be the very first, the one twined
around the trunk. Id have to pull off every single strand to get to
them.
I started pulling, and in an instant seven strands were tangled
into a model of the molecular system. I tugged harder, and branches of the
34-year-old, loosely wired tree started flying out of the trunk as though
possessed. Only then did my husband return to the happy tree-trimming room and
point out, as he helped me floss apart the tangle, that all wed needed to
do was change the fuse in the plug. I hadnt asked, because lights were my
private obsession. Every year, Andrew watched me twine and position and tweak.
Every year, his cheek muscle twitched, but he kept a careful silence.
Now, as the tree of his childhood dismembered itself before our
eyes, he burst forth with every suppressed emotion hed ever had about my
Christmas lights. Excessive, they were, lit up the room like Red Square on
Mayday, and the way I strangled the branches it was no wonder
He
didnt finish the sentence. But I knew that deep in his heart, far below
historys logic, he believed Id killed his tree.
I hate all this Christmas fuss anyway, he muttered,
lassos of lights hanging from each forearm.
Hate Christmas? By now it was 2 a.m., so that
was all I heard. I sobbed till 3.
Just that afternoon, Id been drinking coffee with a friend,
enjoying the background tape of English madrigal carols, and shed
snapped, I wish they wouldnt do that. Meaning play
carols.
The other reporters at work were already making dark bitter jokes
about the holidays.
Another friend was so weary of her husbands humbug,
shed threatened to sell all their ornaments at a garage sale.
And my parents had suggested we skip the traditional sit-down
Christmas dinner and eat sandwiches instead.
What is the matter with all you people? I shrilled.
Christmas is festive. Its about hope and love and joy. What
is so bloody problematic about that?
Apparently a lot. Because the next day, after Andrew left for a
business trip, I began grilling everyone I know. And nearly all of them welled
up with sadness or cynicism when they answered. Christmas wasnt like it
was when they were children. Christmas was for children. Christmas was a
commercialized travesty. Christmas was invariably a disappointment. They never
managed to feel that Christmas spirit everybody harped about. Christmas was a
conspiracy to make people feel inadequate. Nobody had the time to relax and
enjoy each others company anyway, so how were they supposed to feel
joyful? Joy required living in the present moment -- a privilege reserved for
fools and babies.
Taken aback by this deluge, I scrambled to higher ground. Maybe if
they just did something, I grumbled, instead of sitting there with their arms
folded waiting for the spirit to descend.
Let them grouse. I would be
festive all by myself. On my lunch hour, I surfed the Internet looking for
softer-glowing Christmas lights (my part of a goodbye bargain that licensed me
to buy any tree I wanted). I read, I made phone calls, I priced the fanciest
fiber optic trees at the most gaily bedecked shops.
I came home tired and empty-handed, missing my grinchy
husband.
Appalled at myself -- where was the joy? -- I turned up the
Christmas carols and poured a glass of eggnog. By God, I was going to be
festive. Id find the perfect tree, decorate it all by myself, show Andrew
just what wonders the Christmas spirit could work. Suddenly panicky, I paged
through catalogs, shopping for the overwhelming joy Paul had urged on the
Philippians, the joy angels sung from the heavens, the joy that was meant to
fill the world.
Then I slumped into the sofa and petted the dog, drumming the top
of her fuzzy head until she jumped down and sought sanctuary in the
backyard.
The phone rang. It was Jo, my best friend since high school. I
blurted my woes with a childs candor. Why dont we come get
you, she said, and well help you find a real tree, and get
ours at the same time?
Oh, that would be wonderful! I cried, independence
melting like Frosty.
Twenty minutes later, Jo and her husband rang the doorbell. Jolly
at our own spontaneity, we drove to the tree stand and chose fat, friendly
trees. They helped anchor mine in the tree stand, and we sat around admiring
it.
Five minutes after they left, Andrew called. He sounded glad about
the tree, and said to please wait till he got home, he wanted to trim it with
me.
It was Christmas again. And not because of me.
Jeannette Batz is a staff writer for The Riverfront
Times, an alternative newspaper in St. Louis. Her e-mail address is
jeannette.batz@rftstl.com
National Catholic Reporter, December 21,
2001
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