In years past Hubby, Stepdaughter, and I started our Christmas season on the weekend after Thanksgiving. Still logy from too much turkey and dressing, we’d drive out to the tree farm and trudge around, arguing over whether to get a fir or a pine. I’m a fir girl, and Hubby loves a pine tree. Stepdaughter didn’t care, as long as we didn’t kill each other and we actually got a tree, and even though we usually ended up with a dumb old Virginia pine, they were always magnificent.
Until recently, Hubby couldn’t wait to get on the ladder and risk life and limb climbing around on the roof with a staple gun, stringing lights and cussing. We had icicle lights and a glowing star on the peaked end of the house, and a moose in the front yard. The moose lit up, and was supposed to raise and lower his head, in a “life-like grazing motion.” He did that the first year, but there was an incident on the way to the attic after New Years, and after that he just sort of shuddered. We loved him anyway.
The last couple of years have been a little different. Hubby’s dad and stepmother decided to downsize, and we inherited their pre-lit tree. It’s a beauty, and I’d admired it for years. It was amazing to have the tree up and decorated in less than two hours, without a shouting match or a hacksaw injury. And if the warmth of its glow was a little pre-packaged, the convenience was worth it.
This is also the second year that Hubby’s had his art gallery, and all his decorating energy goes into his little storefront. He hangs lights and decorates a tiny tree, and this year he even stole my pumpkin-scented candles to add a homey holiday smell to the joint. Gigantic fake snowflakes grace his windows, but my house is naked and dreary looking in the wet December air. Mr. Moose and the fabulous fake tree are neglected in their attic corner. We can’t afford the medical bills associated with my climbing a ladder or wielding a staple gun.
So, I’ve been grumpy. Bah humbuggy, even. That is, until I lucked up on Ebay. Who could help but feel the spirit when they have a genuine straight-from-the-1950s eggnog set? I’d never seen anything like it! When I was a kid, Mama served eggnog in her crystal stemware. She favored an elegant Christmas atmosphere. I loved the holidays she made for us, but this year, I needed tacky, over-the-top kitsch to jump start my spirit. The old fashioned ceramic pitcher and cups were in the shape of Santa boots, glazed bright red, with candy cane striped handles. I had to have them.
The auction ended two hours later, and I won the eggnog set for fifteen dollars. I payed up and started wondering how to break the news to Hubby. I knew he’d think it was goofy. We don’t even drink eggnog, and in this economy, we don’t need to spend even fifteen dollars foolishly.
I worried all week about Hubby’s reaction to my purchase. Someone suggested that I wrap it up and give it to him as a Christmas gift. That way he had to at least pretend to like it. I considered it briefly, but realized that I needed this little bit of cheer to be mine and no one else’s, so when the box showed up on the carport stoop, I bucked up and confessed.
It’s not quite a Christmas miracle, but Hubby loves the silly little ceramic boots almost as much as I do. He was prepared to think they were awful, and they are, but in a magical way. No one could look at the shiny, dreadfully tasteless things without smiling, and we actually giggled while we found just the right spot to display the set.
I still have to figure out how to get Hubby up in the attic, but it’s finally beginning to look like Christmas at my house.
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