When I was a mere child, about a hundred years ago, we always had a real tree at Christmas. Granted, it was purchased from a grocery store parking lot (I think . . . I know we didn’t trapse out into the woods and chop one down) and then my dad would flock the mess out of it, piling up empty spray cans while transforming your standard pine or spruce into a wintery white masterpiece—said transformation usually taking place in the basement of the funeral home (the old one, not the new one . . . the new one doesn’t have a basement) while I watched with childish glee. It was the first ritual of the season, and I knew what joys the coming days would hold.
Eventually, compliments of Dr. Lloyd Crawford, pediatric allergist in Memphis, Tennessee, my parents figured out why I was sick every single Christmas. Exit the for-real tree and enter an artificial one. The timing could not have been more perfect since aluminum trees were becoming all the rage. Ours was just a really short little dude. At the age of five I was giving it a good run for its money, height-wise. I even have a picture (that will never see the light of Facebook) of me standing beside the tree, balancing a gift in one hand and holding my stocking in the other . . . and looking a lot like a fuzzy-headed, disgruntled dork. Of course, my brother’s picture taken at the same time is that of an adorable barely two year old sitting on the turquoise mile-long sofa in the living room with a ballcap on sideways, holding two of the white flocked reindeer that pulled Santa’s sleigh across the coffee table. Two of the reindeer we were never supposed to touch because it put the Christmas décor in disarray.
My memories of the in between trees are fuzzy, somewhat like my hair, and I can’t with certainty recall what came between the aluminum tree and the Christmas of 1979 which was the first Christmas my parents spent in their apartment in the new funeral home (the one without the basement). The tree that year was a thing of beauty, with gently sweeping boughs that were softly draped in snowy white, clear twinkling lights, and ornaments in shades of peach, coral, and gold. It was the new color scheme in their world, with a lot of beige thrown in for good measure. Over the years the ornaments changed very little save for the occasional gifted one that would be given a place of honor on the tree. Unless the color didn’t match the rest of the décor. Then it was mostly hidden in the depths of the branches.
For some reason the original tree was replaced with your run-of-the-mill green one in 1998 (I had to dig through years of Christmas pictures to pin down the exact time frame) but the decorations never changed. There were still the coral colored bows and Santas clothed in peach and beige, and crystally faceted things that caught the twinkling lights and magnified their beauty. The last time it had seen the light of day was December of 2009 following my father’s death that November. We gathered in the apartment as a family one last time, then the tree and all the decorations were boxed up and stored in a bedroom upstairs. Until this year.
This year we’re moving everything of a personal nature out of that building. You might think we would have seen to that already. But you would be wrong. Thirty years of everything imaginable has been boxed up and hauled to another place for storage and sorting, including the tree. And I have no idea what came over me. I had already put up and decorated ten trees (no, this is not a Christmas side hustle), but I decided to do just one more. The tree that had symbolized Christmas for my parents until their deaths.
At first the green caught me by surprise. My brain was thoroughly convinced I would find the snowy boughs of the original tree when I opened the box. That was why I went to my stash of pictures from Christmases past. I had to convince myself I had the right tree.
I put it together, fluffing each and every branch, then opened the giant blue tub of decorations, only to find myself staring down at things that were far removed from what little tree decorating skills I might possess. How does one utilize 12 inch tall Santas and larger than life, glitter encrusted pears with fancy headdresses (at least that’s what they looked like)? One by one . . . piece by piece . . . I emptied the tub and filled the tree. Finally, only the top remained. The top that had evidently been crowned with an angel nestled into swirling sticks glittered in gold and stems of golden berries. And a bow. A giant bow. I say evidently because that’s all I had left in the tub. None of which has ever graced any tree I’ve ever decorated. But on that afternoon, I worked to get everything in place so hopefully half of it didn’t fall out or look like the top of the tree had exploded. When it was all said and done, I still had to find the tree skirt which was stored in yet another tub. And I was covered in glitter—as was the floor. Was it perfect? Oh, goodness no. Not even close. And yet it was. It was because I had taken a piece of my past . . . a piece of my parents’ lives that served as the centerpiece for our holidays together . . . and merged it with the present, creating a moment that, for me, defied description.
And isn’t that what this time of year is all about? To relive old memories while making new ones? Each person, each event—each glitter encrusted larger than life pear and 12 inch tall Santa—plays their part, multiplying the moments that will warm our hearts in the years to come. May each of you be truly present in those moments this season, and may you always hold them close.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
