Memory Tree

I wrote most of this before Christmas, but ran out of time before I could finish it.  If you didn't grow up an Ellsworth, you'll probably find this more boring than sentimental.  So as always, no insult is found in skipping it.  Happy New Year everyone!

I remember going over to a friend’s house as a teenager and being blown away by her Christmas tree.  It was as if Martha Stewart herself had decorated it.  Every year her mom chose a theme: angels, Santa, stars etc.  That year it was snowmen, and there were snowmen of all sorts dotting the tree, snow women, snow families, and a snow angel at the top.  Beautiful silver ribbon encircled the branches and sparkly snow-like balls were each carefully hung by the mother of the home.

I went home anticipating the choosing and decorating of our own tree.  In a few days we’d go to the Hope’s house where my parents had helped plant Christmas trees 25 years earlier.  We’d pick out the one we liked best and place it in the corner of our downstairs living room.  We’d lug a few boxes down from the attic, turn on some Handel, and begin the process.

Our tree was never a magazine tree.  It was what my Mom called a Memory Tree, which I think means that my parents never threw away a gifted ornament in their lives.  There were lots, and each one had a happy memory or loved friend associated with it.  Branches or our tree never had room for shiny red balls, or clever themes.  From a purely aesthetic standpoint, it probably wasn’t too impressive.  It was almost like happy memories had thrown up all over the tree.  There were the crocheted angels made by adopted Grandma Althouse, the personalized clay Ellsworth family figures from the Arnolds, sea shells from vacations at cape cod, glittery preschool art projects, and of course missionary tags.   Those of us who served missions in our family had a tradition of sending home a name tag to be hung up, so that we could in a way be home for the holidays.  An Elder Ellsworth and a few Sister Ellsworth plaques could be distinguished only by the language their name was inscribed.

I remember when fairy lights rose in popularity, and their monochromatic, dainty elegance took over our neighborhood’s front porches.  But we would keep our colorful, clunky lights that looked like they fell right out of the 1950s.  They looked like huge, glowing holiday lollypops casting colors all over the room.  It was by their glow that I would write Santa every year, a wish list to lay by a sock a had dug out of my drawer.

I met a women in California who filled her home with 32 Christmas trees every year, and decorated each uniquely.  There was the kitchen themed tree, the peacock tree, the disco ball tree...  It was great fun to explore her giant house and have my picture taken with at least ten of her decorative creations.  But when I think of Donegal Place and the smell of that fresh pine, the Hallelujah Chorus and hot chocolate, the scrapple and the ornaments each reflecting happy times and wonderful people, I can’t help but wonder what my tree will look like in 20 years.  Right now it is small, smaller than Ira.  It’s artificial, and covered in fairy lights.  But it’s happy.  It’s Jean Gerdes, and pasta angel, and Pittsburgh preschool student happy.  The fact that we can’t fit all of our one string of lights on its’ small branches, is irrelevant.  I still hear Handle, can taste the scrapple, and best of all, feel the warmth of love all around me.  There will be longer branches for more memories another year.