Me and the Tree.

There is something about a lighted Christmas tree that gets to me.

Wait. I need to be specific: There is something about a real lighted non-thematic lighted Christmas tree that gets me.

And maybe that's where I fall down this year.

It's been a few years since we did the real tree thing. It became far too unmanageable, and the tiffy tree was easier. But, when I was growing up, the feel and the smell of the fresh tree in the living room was right up there with the smell of my Mother's baking on the list of greatest things ever.

My father would string the lights on the tree.....and we're talking old school lights, people....huge bulbous things that seemed as big as a human fist, and you could see them from space.....but oh, what a lovely light.

The ornaments were stored in two ancient boxes, and they were a massive conglomeration of hand-downs from previous generations and the things the kids made in elementary school.

Tinsel in great supply, covering the tree like an autumn frost.

But my favorite thing was to get up early on a Christmas morning, and turn on the tree, and just sit and look at it, with the wrapped packages scattered around beneath. There was something special in that "calm before the storm" moment; it could be repeated but never duplicated.

Now. My tree is tiffy, of course, and lighted with small, white lights. The ornaments are, alas in a theme this year, the color of gold, with one single ornament, a picture of me as Scrooge, holding a young Tim on my shoulder, that hangs in the center of the tree. A star on the top, also in white and silver. Pretty.

But not.

I baked like a madman bakerguy through the weekend, puttering between the stove and the television, where the daily grind of Christmas stories played out on the Hallmark station. The upstairs television almost never plays football; it's a concession I make to the non-fans in the house.

A Christmas Carol always gets me in the end.

Three Days to Go.

All is well.

Sigh.