The tree is waiting in the stand; a beautiful balsam, about six and a half feet tall...taller than my sons and my father, and taller, physically, than Don. We will leave it two days, its branches relaxing naturally as it adapts to the unnatural heat of the house and thrives, so green and full—how long before we, so selfish perhaps to want a real tree, will watch its needles wilt and die.
When the children were children, they helped decorate the tree. I am sure they tired of my ponderous routine—tape-deck carols sung mostly by people thirty or more years dead; cupsful of scorching hot chocolate; mum making ‘practical suggestions.’ (I wasn’t permitted to help decorate in my father’s house, and I had too few Christmases with mum, and therefore was never sure enough how tradition/s should be set.)
But it’s that time of year. Trees, decorations, succulent meat, mulled wine, shining stars, and chocolate.
Speaking of chocolate, yesterday one of my wonderful former students sent me the most glorious basket of chocolate I have ever laid eyes on—all the way from Brazil: toffee, pretzels, cookies, biscuits, coffee—it’s unbelievable. I cried for ten minutes straight, for Sarah and for this benevolent young woman who not only understands, but who always made me feel valuable as a teacher, a writer and as a human being.
Today, a friend of mine sent out a Facebook message, grateful for her annual Christmas card ritual—she licked something like 103 envelopes—I don’t even know 103 people—and right now on television Ringo Starr is crying in memory of George Harrison who offered, on his death bed, to accompany Ringo to Boston to the bedside of Starr’s daughter, who was suffering from a brain tumour.
I had a son with a brain tumour, and I have some idea what that means on behalf of one’s child. But (Mary and Sarah and) I have never been welcome in his home at Christmas, or at any other time of year, and as time goes by dominoes will fall into place, while others right themselves.
Sarah, who loved decorating so much, will not be here this year, either. “I am coming to Toronto next Christmas, Mum,” she said, with that look of fierce determination. She was also fond of the Beatles, as was I, and along with her youngest brother bought me many Fab Four CDs. More than anything she cherished gift-giving and planning surprises, and I am so, so sorry that I am not able to do either for her this year.
If I were one of my students, right about now I would be asking me about the absence of thoughtful transitions in this entry. But this entry is only (only? that’s funny) about impressions, and for once I am freed from the burden of over-thinking. Besides, my arm is compromised, and writing is not such a good idea today.
Mary has just this minute called from the grocery aisle. She said she phoned because it seemed to be what everyone was doing. I laughed, and then she sang, loudly, “I just called to say I love you....” Jesus. It wasn’t enough for her to sing one line, either. She felt compelled to go on. Funny woman. (Weird woman.) (Weird in a good way, though.) (That’s what I tell people, anyway.)
So these are my traditions. Mary. Noam when he is able. Noam when he is unable. Have Gun Will Travel, is all I mean. Lainey, never yet on the day, but we are adaptable. “Gramps, when I come to Toronto, will there be presents?” Blue, vicariously, plus in the park and over at the coffee shop. “Gammie...” Delicious food. A lovely tree. Friends. MCC on Christmas Eve. (Don’t bother to come rob us, either. We have attack dogs.) Movies, including documentaries. Email. Zach/Joanne/Sheila, and like that. Cards (but not 103. To be fair, I know well-loved and loving people who don’t send any cards, but this friend is from Newfoundland, which explains about 67 of those messages, along with the sentiment.) Music. Memories. Don. And Sarah. Always Sarah, who, like our noble Christmas tree, will live a life too short, but light up every corner of our world, gloriously.
Sarah, who always laughed whenever I quoted EB White’s, “I pine for you, I balsam.”
