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Christmas Tree Light PsychosisbyMaureen Murdock
To my young son...
You know I've always had a slight seasonal psychosis that starts to develop in early December, grows in intensity as we go out to buy the Christmas tree and flourishes into full blossom the moment we take the Christmas tree lights out of the basement. I know I don't need to remind you; that's probably why you've always dreaded the holidays. And stay away. It all started when I was a young girl in suburban New Jersey and my dad, your Pop, dressed every outside fir tree, every rope of hanging evergreen inside and outside the house and, of course, his pièce de résistance, the Christmas tree, with perfectly spaced, perfectly synchronized Christmas tree lights. In the 50's there were the thick opaque colored bulbs of repeating sequences of blue, orange, yellow, green, red, and white, each of which he replaced as soon as one burned out. We always had bulbs in reserve. The 60's brought the clear glass bulbs of the same colors that seemed to need fewer replacements. The 70's ushered in tiny clear glass bulbs that danced magically as pinpricks of white starlight when lit. Each bulb knew its place, its
string hidden well by tree needles. Dad never allowed the cord that
powered the lights and held them together to show. When I was a child, going out to find just the right tree was fun, but when I became a mother, it became a heartache. First of all, there was no snow to brush off the trees in Los Angeles and the trees seemed smaller, drier, more spindly and droopier than the trees I was used to on the East Coast. Secondly, the strong Douglas firs that I coveted for their ability to wear my carefully picked ornaments and lights with dignity were out of my price range. Each year's attempt to duplicate my memories of childhood magic became more painful as first your dad and I, or later on, you and I failed to arrange the Christmas tree lights just right. I know I must have made you and Heather miserable. My behavior warranted a preliminary DSM IV diagnosis. In fact, I think you were the one who said, “Mom, you have Christmas tree light psychosis,” which you then tried to cure. When
you were nine -- or maybe eleven, but not ten, I'm sure of that -- we walked down
the street to the small Boys' Club tree lot on Main and picked out a California
spindly needle Christmas tree that we could carry back home. It was about
five feet tall. When we got home you and Heather and I moved the couch out
of the way and situated the tree in the annual tree corner near the front window
of the living room. I started to sweat, get dry mouth, and the hair on the
back of my neck started to rise. You looked at me and said: "Mom, I'd like
to do the lights this year. "Are
you sure? You know what that means? "Yes, I know you want them just right and I can do it. Why don't you go upstairs and Heather and I will call you when we're done?" So
I went upstairs. And tried to sit still. I paced from my bedroom to the
bathroom and back again to the bedroom. I lay down on my bed, looked up at the
ceiling and tried to breathe deeply. I considered the courage your
request took. I wondered if you and Heather had planned this in private to
alleviate another Christmas tree light drama or if yours had been a spontaneous
gesture. I made a pact with myself that however the tree looked, it would be
acceptable. It was Heather's voice that called me downstairs. It seemed a little too soon to my mind for you to have done a careful job. But I had made a pact with myself so I quieted my critic and gingerly walked the stairs. The tree was lit and it had a rakish tilt. It was clear that the lights were atangle. The colored lights (from the 60's) bunched up on the right side at the top of the tree and the white twinkle lights (from the 70's) drooped around the bottom. The glass balls were spaced more evenly. “How do you like it, Mom?” asked Heather. “I did the balls and Brendan did the lights.” “Yeah, I tried to give them a new look; I decided they wanted to be a bit freer this year. So I picked up the colored ones and threw them up over the top of the tree and where they landed they stayed. Looks pretty cool, doesn't it?” I started to laugh. It did look cool. The tree looked happy – it looked like a well-licked ice cream cone that had started to melt. It was so incongruous to my obsessive light stringing nature that it tickled me completely. I laughed so hard I started to cry. And all of a sudden, years of trying to imitate my father's perfection washed away and my psychosis was cured. At least temporarily! It is true that I have never had the wild abandon you displayed that day two decades ago to throw the lights up on the tree and let them fall where they may but some day, I hope I will. |