The Empire State Building had been erected in my living room. It tottered and teetered from size-to-side, threatening to topple. The weary dog, trembling, was busy packing. She had the car keys. Was fleeing town. I heard boards in the floor creak. We all stood around it and stared. This tower of … of … of … Christmas decoration boxes!
It touched the ceiling. Shoot, we could skip the tree and just decorate it. The stack was taller than the tree. We would start a new tradition.
But how had our collection of holiday stuff grown to this monstrosity?
“Did you get the box of Christmas books down?” my wife asked.
My head cocked toward her. The way a zombie would. My spinal cord had long-since become detached from my body, ruined by all the life-threatening trips into the attic. I was the Christmas Sherpa. And I was lucky to be alive thanks to the wobbly fold-out stairs.
“The box of Christmas books?” I said in disbelief. “You mean there’s more!?!”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “It’s right next to the box of Christmas CDs, and the box of Christmas 8-track tapes, and the box with the note that reads, ‘Don’t throw away, but don’t put out. Too hideous for company!’”
The wha … never mind. I fetched the box.
It didn’t used to be like this. Once upon a time, there were one, maybe two, Christmas decoration boxes. A manageable lot. Decorating wasn’t a monumental task. It wasn’t like unloading a freighter down at the dock. I never needed a forklift!
Today it’s a colossal undertaking. I counted at least seven boxes, and a snowman whose body was made from plastic white pumpkins. His stick arms toppled everything as I pried him out of the attic.
It took forever to trim the tree. To hang all the lights outside. To get the house just right. To sort through the hundreds of decorations we didn’t like, but wouldn’t dare throw away. To discover we had more dead Christmas tree lights than live ones. And finally, to put the reindeer antlers atop my dog’s head.
But after it all, I realized something. Christmas decorating wasn’t actually about decorating. It was about memories — making new ones as a family, but also reliving old ones. The snowman the doctor gave us when my daughter was born on Dec. 26. The tree topper my wife and I bought years ago when we were a party of two. The little ornament with the picture of our first dog, Chase. The carolers from my wife’s childhood. The Hallmark nick-knacks from my mom.
All memories and reminders — like a Christmas scrapbook that only gets opened once a year. Never fully appreciated for what it is. (Well, maybe because I usually injure myself falling out of the attic.) But this year I decided I HAD to appreciate it, and the decorated house has taken on new meaning. I’m enjoying it in a new way. A more special way. And I’ll do it right up until January … when I have to cart all those boxes back to the attic again.