O Christmas Tree

My mother has four Christmas trees in her house. (Lighted trees, she would point out. There are others sitting on tables and such decorated with sparkly retro earrings or candy canes and apples or, whatever.) And all of her trees have themes. The 10' tree is hung with dolls -- small porcelain dolls, mostly, but others as well. People ooh and aah as they stand and look at all the different dolls, and add to the collection.

One is covered with small hand quilted patchwork ornaments. (She's a gifted quilter and has had quilts in magazines and art calendars and such.)

Etc., etc., etc.

But my favorite tree? The one of my childhood.

When I was little we had one tree. Always real, of course. And a study in perfection. This is the tree by which all other Christmas trees must be measured, and must fall short.

The bulbs were the old-fashioned fat kind. All red.

All the ornaments -- every single one -- were identical.

Fat shiny red balls.

Tied on with perfect bows of red satin ribbon.

Silver icicles shimmered from the tips of the branches, in perfect strands.

At night I'd stretch out under the tree in the dark, and bask in the red glow, and listen to Firestone record albums. And Goodyear. Wasn't it Goodyear? Or Goodrich? Some other tire company. Everything from the Vienna Boys' Choir singing "Carol of the Bells" to Steve Lawrence and Edie Gorme. The Julie Andrews Christmas Album where she sang familiar lyrics to unfamiliar (British) melodies.

I've never tried to match that tree. My tree is a jumble of colorful ornaments my kids made, cheap ornaments I've bought at Target and the grocery store and expensive ornaments I've bought on vacations. I like the fruit-basket-turnoverness of it. The non-perfection of it, if you will.

But deep in my heart I know my kids were deprived of magical red light and shadows.

And it's my mother's fault, for getting tired of tying all those damn perfect red satin bows.