Once upon a time there were three boxes. Three. One was for outside decorations. Two were for in. They held lights. Ornaments. An assortment of Christmas knick-knacks and tchotchkes. Decorating was manageable. I could be in and out of the attic in a couple minutes. All was right with the world. Ho ho ho …
Fast forward to the present. The modern day Christmas … with a child in the house … and I have just completed a marathon. A military operation. Our living room looks like a shipping port strewn with containers. There are lights everywhere. Homemade decorations filling every conceivable space. Each step risks impaling my foot on some lethal decoration. Bah humbug …
I must have carted 16 boxes of Christmas “stuff” out of the attic this year.
It’s a death-defying experience. Actually, it’s more death-inviting. I try to do it alone. Why? Because men are missing a key chromosome for common sense.
Because navigating down a narrow, wobbly attic ladder with a box that weighs more than Arkansas seems like a logical thing to do. Until you realize it won’t fit through the narrow opening … and you’re stuck … and can’t go down, and can’t get back up. Damn that missing chromosome!
I got them all out, somehow. Or at least I thought I had. There’s always one more. As I collapsed on the couch, I heard a voice say: “Wait a minute. Where’s the box with the Christmas tablecloth and the shedding Christmas bear with the missing eye from when Amelie was 2?”
Dangit! Back up I go. Poor, weary Christmas Sherpa.
Christmas decorating has become an event in my house. It lasts longer than Christmas itself. It all piles up. And all spills out.
Photos of our old dog on an ornament. Little items from my childhood. A drug store snow globe I bought for my wife the night she went into labor. A ballerina from the first time my little girl saw the Nutcracker. A green cardboard Christmas tree with painted macaroni as ornaments.
As each trinket or ornament emerges, there’s a gasp — a little cry of joy. “Here it is!” What a thrill that sound. I smile. Suddenly it’s worth it. One of the simpler and more rewarding joys of Christmas. Not boxes of commercialism — as so much of the season has become. Boxes of memories and keepsakes and wonderful moments. A chance to relive them all.
Worth the dozens of trips up the ladder? Yeah, I guess so. Worth the disaster that is now the living room? Sure. Worth the great sagging dent those 17 boxes left in the attic floor? Gosh, OK.
It only comes once a year, and the only time it really hurts is January, when I have to put it all away again.