It’s not a Christmas tree. It’s a topiary.

Every year it’s the same. Halloween lurches into All Souls Day marked not by an ephemeral calm associated with remembrance, but by the roll out of decorative Christmas balls at the mall. Not that I’m opposed to Christmas balls—I love ’em, ’specially the ones soaked in rum—but the accelerated race to Christmas marked by a way too early jump off from Fall, left me breathless and wonting. Unlike the mall, I just couldn’t seem to get the tree up in November, and this has caused me no end of residual grief now.

Tree pitching always seems early, but this year more acutely so. I didn’t hoist mine until four days before the 25th. It was probably because of the foot I broke on Labor Day, which forced me inside for six wretched weeks, and then detained me further when cold temps and sheet ice hit the pavement outside.

“Yer doin’ great,” the doc assured, “but don’t fall anymore.”

Good advice that I could accept after a heck of a lot of soul searching. I’m of a ‘certain age,’ that euphemism that heralds all sorts of happy portents including a declining interest in matching panty and lace bra sets on sale at the same mall with the trees, and a stark realization that short sleeved minis with hems cut up to the cooch are no longer for me.

But I digress…

In coming late to the Christmas tree party, I find myself on St. Brigid’s Day still looking at my Christmas tree which blinks back at me with a joyous multicolor light patina that promises so many things. I am not alone in this. Many, I’ve learned, hold on to their festive trees long after Boxing Day, New Years Day, St. Brigid’s Day.

Maybe this hints at something more lasting; a new way of holding on to something dear?

My friend the spin doctor assures me that there are alternative interpretations for all kinds of things in all kinds of universes: we tree loving folk just need one to suit our arbors.

Works for me: One need never feel self conscious ever again for coming late to the party and then refusing to leave.

O, Christmas tree. Thou art anything but. Thou art a topiary, and a jovial one at that!

 

Adult, unapologetic and wholly cognizant,

I am,

funkhauser logo

 

On the Feast of St. Brigid

Saol fada agus breac-shláinte chugat

February 1, 2016

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4 thoughts on “It’s not a Christmas tree. It’s a topiary.

  1. Broke a metatarsal once. Outside one. Dr. called it a “dancer’s break,” which is about the only tie I have with the ballet community outside of parking my butt in a seat from time to time. All I had to endure was six weeks with a walking boot and a “knee scooter” (hooray for Scooter Nation), so I fared better than you. Never tried the mini-skirt, but might have been entertaining. Might still be.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I broke the fifth metatarsal. A real nasty bit of business. I’m a mall walker now. More on that soon, maybe after a blog on the infamous wild turkey mishap. Nasty beasties, those wild turkeys! Carl: please stay away from the minis. That’s all I’ll say on that!

    Like

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