My Little Tree
By H.G. Miller
So, this is the 4th different apartment I've celebrated Christmas in since I
moved out of my parents house for college. And, while the creaky floors,
horrendously-antiquated heating systems and gaudy stucco exteriors may have
changed, one thing hasn't: the scrawny plastic bristles of the economy class
Christmas Tree I got on sale at Osco Drug for $9.95.
As is the tradition with my family, we decorate after Thanksgiving. So, this
Friday, I busted out the box with the tree parts in it, as well as the sack
with all of the lights. Some strands may not burn as bright as they used to,
but hey, I stole them from my roommate fair and square, so they're going up.
The crowning centerpiece of my ghetto Christmas is the tree, of course. Every
year, I tell myself that I'm going to go out and drop some coin (a phrase I
picked up from the locals here) on a nice new shiny plastic tree (my reasons
for not wanting a real Christmas tree are varied and obtuse, let us not get
into that now) from one of the local department stores. However, this plan is
always squelched each year when I open up my box of Christmas tree parts and
assemble the cracked and faded pieces to see how the little guy still looks.
Oh, how it warms my heart to see it!
The shiny-metallic icicle strands I put on it four years ago still cling to the
branches like the glitter from a Mardi Gras party that refuses to leave your
eyelid for months and months. The second year I had the tree, all but one of the
silver balls I bought were destroyed in a move across Kansas. The lone survivor
dangles with pride from the branches marked with a 3-C for assembly purposes.
I have a golden bell with the year 1996 etched into it that my parents gave me
to celebrate the first Christmas I spent on my own (though, my entire family
did stay the night in my studio apartment that year for travel reasons that
have been painstakingly avoided since).
The crowning piece to my tree came in the form of a Jack-in-the-Box brand
holiday antenna ball that I got free for clogging my arteries with the
Sourdough Bacon Jack Burger last year. One would think the manufactures who
contracted with Osco Drug six years ago to sell plastic trees were in cahoots
with the Jack-in-the-Box Corporation, the thing fits so perfectly on the top of
my little tree.
I'm telling you, the icicles, the silver ball, the golden bell and the Jack
ball… the whole thing is just so damn cute, you could die.
And, as my holiday locations continue to change, it's nice to have a little
something from the first home of my own to keep the holiday spirit going.