A Deep River Year
December 10, 2014
December for us is a season of rituals involving food, decorations, and the keeping of time.   In this dark season around the winter Solstice, these rituals serve as a reminder that life not only endures the dark and cold seasons, but gives us joy.   This weekend we headed out to get our Christmas tree, something we have come to do on the first weekend in December since our children were young.   There is nothing universal about this particular timing, of course.   As a child, my family acquired a Christmas tree from a lot in the city, chosen from an assortment of trees that were probably cut down in September.  And we always put our tree up on my sister's birthday, Dec. 18.   My wife's family religiously did their tree on Christmas Eve, to the accompaniment of a turkey dinner and Christmas carols on the stereo. 

But we have come to like having the tree up a little longer, enjoying its magic even as the needles begin to grow brittle and fall to the floor.   We have not yet succumbed to the temptation of purchasing an artificial tree, whose needles will never fall.  I  cherish the fresh, pungent scent of a balsam.  And we go out to find one every year, even when it requires tromping through the meadow in search of the perfectly-shaped tree in the middle of a monsoon.   Such was the case on Saturday.   But we had already planned the outing, and the grandchildren were eager to get their tree.   This annual attraction is sweeter because at Joe's Christmas Tree Farm, they always have a bonfire going so that kids can cook a hot dog or roast a marshmallow before tying the tree to the top of the car and heading home.  Saturday the hot dog buns were soggy, and the marshmallows were covered with ashes  because in the rain, there wasn't much of a blaze for cooking.   But a good time was had by all, and finally we located just the prettiest tree we've ever had.  And  I, with my saw, knelt on the saturated earth and cut it down.   Shortly afterward, my wife spotted an even prettier tree, but that one will have to wait until next year.

Our Puritan ancestors had no use for Christmas trees.   They denounced them as pagan, a stain on the holiness of their religious holiday.   They banned them in New England for a while.  I prefer Martin Luther's take on things.  It is said that he was walking in the woods at night and saw stars shining through the branches of a fir.   Such beauty, he thought, should be in every home.   And it still is, in ours.

Christmas Tree

Hands sticky with sap,
fresh from the cutting wound,
I  set the tall fir inside the window,
where its lights will be seen
by those standing outside in the cold.
And here, inside, near a glowing hearth,
where we sit in the darkness
of a December night,
some magic will shine on us, too.
We hang the ornaments of our history
on these fragrant branches,
the glow of memory reflected
in glitter and glass.
But perhaps it would be enough
to do as my father did,
in the last of his Christmases,
forgoing the balls and garlands,
and hanging just a few lights
to illuminate his quiet celebration.
There in the darkness of that year
he fell asleep to something like stars
shining in these tender boughs,
a promise in winter
of something evergreen.

--Timothy Haut, December 10, 2014