My first Christmas in my first apartment, I bought a tree so tall I had to cut the top off in order to stand it upright in the studio’s one room. That’s how enthusiastic (and clueless) I was, getting my first Christmas tree. I bought lights and more lights for it, distributed the few ornaments I had (gifts from my college roommates, inherited ones from my grandma Alma) and then bought more.
I always have a Christmas tree, even when I’m going to be traveling for the holidays. I love the fir’s forest smell, the glow of the lights in a darkened room, the sparkle of ornaments in the sunshine. Though I’ve never again had a tree as big as that first one, I love the process of choosing and decorating a tree. I can reminisce looking at the ornaments—those from my roommates and my grandmother, those first sparkly glass pine cones I bought for myself, and also the mariachi man I bought on my honeymoon in Cancun, the nativity scene in a dried pomegranate from Budapest, the many ornaments given to me by loved ones through the years. A Christmas tree is a connection to my past, to all the years of decorating a tree as a child (even the scrawny living tree we had for years in the seventies), and as an adult.
No matter how busy I am, I always want a fresh tree in the house for the holidays. The only year in memory that I failed to have one was the year we were remodeling our kitchen, with the kitchen contents crammed into boxes that took up half the living room. At the same time, we were in escrow on our new home, going through the inspections and repairs. I had to settle for a tabletop model (complete with ornaments and lights) from the grocery store floral department that year.
Even last year, when my husband was out of town, I still managed to bring home a tree in my Miata, a much smaller tree than my first tree, but just as beautiful.
This red Breton (bumper?) seemed perfect for a tree-hunting expedition. This hat was one in the collection I got from Sandra that included the brown wool hat. Note that in this post originally, I had this down as a bowler, but I never felt comfortable with that identification. I think now it's more of a Breton, so I've changed the designation.
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Ann Hillesland writes fiction and nonfiction and collects hats. In this blog she vows to wear (not just model, but wear out of the house) every one of her hats, blogging about their histories and their meanings for her.