My mother loved Christmas. The house was decorated to the nines with handmade decorations. A big wreath made with various types of dried pine cones and sprayed gold, hung above the mantel flanked by two handmade papier maiche angels, also in gold. She baked cookies. Lots of cookies. And rum soaked fruitcake which she gave away to teachers and neighbors and served as dessert at her annual holiday bash. I never liked fruitcake but I loved the accompanying hard sauce, a sugary sweet confection that was served alongside.

We always had a real Christmas tree. A Blue Spruce or a Douglas Fir. That is until the fire.

One evening during the holiday season, I was on my way up to bed. We’d spent the evening sitting by the fire, enjoying the glow of the Christmas tree and listening to my mother read to us. We took our baths and got ready for bed.

As I wandered down the hallway I caught a glimpse of the fireplace, engulfed in flames. The gold wreath was on fire and the pine cones began to pop from the cardboard backing and shoot, like small heat seeking missiles towards the rug. I stood frozen for a moment, and then ran back to the bathroom where my youngest brother was just finishing up his bath.

“Fire,” I tried to yell, but nothing would come out. I pointed furiously towards the living room.

“Fire,” I tried again and still my words would not come. I grabbed my mother’s arm and pulled her towards the living room.

“Tom,” she screamed, calling my father. “Tom, there’s a fire!”

My father, ever the quick thinker, grabbed some blankets, soaked them with the bathwater and threw them at the flames. The fire was out quickly. The damage kept to a minimum. The angels and the wreath were gone, the wood paneling on the wall singed black, but the house remained.

That was the year my parents switched to a “fake” Christmas tree.

I thought about that story last night as I sat in my living room and looked up at the beautiful Frasier Fir we have this year. The lights twinkled. The ornaments hung just so. The gingerbread tugged on the branches.

Although “fake” trees have come a long way since the one we had on Preston Drive, I’ve always preferred the real ones. I love the way they smell, the fresh foresty scent that seems to permeate the air. I love the irregularity of them, the fact that we always have to find the right “side” to display, the side without any “holes”. It is my job to string the lights. Channeling my inner Martha Stewart, I wrap them carefully around each branch starting from the bottom and working my way to the top, my hands covered in sap by the end. We carefully hang the ornaments, reminiscing about some of them, the handmade clothespin deer, the ribbon wrapped wreath and the ceramic Baby’s First Christmas shoes. Each one a memory.

Wishing you a wonderful holiday making memories with your loved ones. Here’s to a New Year that offers each of us the opportunity to spread peace, joy and love to those we meet. The world is counting on us.

Namaste.