The year I turned twelve, my sister Dorothy got married, and my brother Andrew entered the Army. That left my parents and me the only occupants of the family home that Christmas.
“Can I decorate the tree all by myself this year?” I asked my parents.
“You can’t put the tree up by yourself,” Mom said.
“Daddy can put it in the tree stand, but I’ll do all the decorating. I’m old enough. I’ll be thirteen next year,” I said.
They agreed and sat back to watch the proceedings.
“Put the lights on first,” Daddy said.
“I know that,” I answered, indignant at him for telling me how to do it. After all, I’d helped with the decorations for years.
First, I tested the bulbs. The old strands of lights wouldn’t work if they had just one defective bulb. I tested each in turn until all the lights gleamed with bright yellow, red, blue and green illumination. I carefully draped the lights from branch to branch, positioning each so no two of the same color would hang near each other.
“Put some on the back,” Mom said.
“The tree stands in a corner. No one can see the back,” I retorted, annoyed at their insistence on direction.
I continued placing the multi-colored glass balls, green holly garlands and silver tinsel in artistic array, all on the front of the tree.
“You really should put some on the back to make the weight more even,” Dad said.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “Daaaddy.”
From then on, my parents remained quiet.
I spread a white sheet under the tree and Mom arranged all the gaily-wrapped presents around it.
Christmas morning, Dorothy, and her husband Arthur, came to open presents with us before they went on to her in-laws for dinner.
Mom made hot chocolate and placed a plate full of home-made cookies on the coffee table. Christmas music played on the radio and I sat on an ottoman next to my beautifully decorated tree to have my picture taken.
Suddenly, to my horror, the tree crashed face first to the floor. I jumped up and ran to my bedroom, flung myself across the bed and let wracking, gut-wrenching sobs fill the air.
Always my comforter and mentor, my sister followed. She sat next to me and let my cry out my frustration.
“I’ve ruined Christmas,” I wailed.
“No, you haven’t. It was an accident, not your fault.”
“Yes, it is my fault. Both Mom and Dad told me to put some on the back and I wouldn’t listen,” I sputtered and a fresh supply of tears flowed unchecked.
After she soothed my feelings, Dorothy coaxed me back to the living room where the tree now stood erect in the corner with lights and decorations circling the entire girth.
I felt embarrassed, but Mom and Dad acted as if nothing had happened and Christmas continued as planned.
Every year afterward, Dad tied string around the trunk of the tree and nailed it to the wall.
Rear: father Andrew Fahey
