The tree

Last weekend, we went out and bought ourselves an artificial Christmas tree.

Awkward.

That's right. We caved. Capitulated. Cashed in. A holiday season free of itchy, watery eyes and reactive  airway episodes finally trumped a fresh, beautiful, and unfortunately irritatingly fragrant, Noble or Douglas fir enthroned in our living room for 2 1/2 sneeze-shattering weeks.

A mind-bending decision in this household, but made much easier after two days of allergic reaction after wrangling a very fresh Trader Joe's cedar garland outside on our front porch railing in a stiff south-by-southeast wind.  My eyes still itch at the memory.

It's a good year to make the transition. The Number 1 Son and The Miz are heading to Japan for a wonderful visit with family and friends there. (Hi, Hakamatas!!!) The Number 2 Son is still in his probationary period with What's-in-Your-Wallet and can't make it home. (Don't worry. The Seattle Poopheads have his back.) And, we rationalized, we can always buy a fresh tree if we get the hankering for a couple weeks' acute respiratory distress some future Christmas.

So, this holiday, it's just us. My date, me and John McClane -- JM -- our new little Christmas tree.

Yes, we've already named him.

We like your style, JM!

Assembly was relative simple, and we duly noted the zillion labels in 18 different languages warning us about the dangers of electrical shock, fire and other natural and unnatural disasters related to Christmas trees.

The lights work, and JM now stands straight and proud, though still ornament-less,  in front the living room window. We'll get around to the ornament thing sometime this week. We're kind of sliding slowly into the holidays this year.

Artificial or not, I think John McClane will serve as a cheerful, steadfast holiday companion. He shines bright and true as does any Christmas tree worth its salt, sharing his welcoming warmth with all who live and visit here.

You're A-okay, John McClane.

Welcome to the Nine-One-Four!

O, Christmas Tree

 

Someone has decorated a small tree in Comstock Park. That's where I walk my dog, Ben, almost every morning. My dog-walking friends, The Amazing M's, and I discovered it December 21, the shortest (and darkest) day of the year.

The dark, stark background of the city park in December accentuates the tree's quirky simplicity. A few strands of beads and Christmas ornaments. Christmas chains made of out of aluminum foil. One frosty (real) pine cone suspended from a string on a skinny, calloused branch. And, at the bottom of the tree, a small plastic snowman stuck in the ground on a stake.

We stopped dead in our tracks when we saw the tree for the first time, faintly shimmering just south of the baseball field at the upper end of the park. It was so out of context, and yet so perfect. None of us could ever recall a Christmas tree in Comstock Park.

We walked up to the tree and stared, admiring its humble trimmings. Speculating about who might do such a wonderfully whimsical thing. Our dogs, Ben and Wally, seemed to sense that something unexpected and oddly lovely had happened in their park.

Two days later, the tree is still decorated, unsullied by Comstock's dog walkers, joggers and occasional grafitti artist. I smile when I walk by it. I think we all do. I can't speak for others who visit Comstock each morning, but "our tree" reminds me to slow down and appreciate the fact that it doesn't take much to generate holiday cheer. It can be as simple as a Christmas tree in Comstock Park.

God rest ye, merry tree-trimmer(s). Whoever you are.