Decking the Halls – One discord at a time

I have never actually decked any of my halls with bows of holly. Though, I did once Fun-Tak® the closet door with a poster of Cindy Crawford in a Santa bikini. Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Growing up in my house, there were three decorations that provided constant strife every Christmas. The first was our blinking star. Eight inches tall and studded with lights and silvery tinsel, it sat atop our tree, flashing and pulsating in no particular time or sequence, and casting the harshest, most searing white light that even the angels must have shielded their eyes. It’s a good thing none of us were prone to seizures.

Every year, my mother spoke of retiring the star, and every year, she was vetoed. Sure, the star was annoying, and sure it had a tendency to slip off its perch… And yes, okay, it was annoying—and more than a little ironic—that this particular ornament only came with an eighteen-inch power cord. But come on, it was Christmas! Plus, our only other option was one of those phallic aluminum ball-and-spike things—which to this day I have never been able to decipher the religious or historical significance of. So the star has remained in its exalted position, unmoved even to this day.

The second object of our frustration was a small, yet very lifelike dove ornament. It became an obsession because of the year our cat attacked the dove with vicious ferocity. I suspect that history has given way to legend with this particular story. What probably happened is that the cat merely walked by the dove and sniffed it just long enough for somebody to say, “Look, he thinks it’s a real bird.” Every Christmas after that—and I do mean every Christmas—we made sure to perch that dove on the lowest branch just to see if we could fool our cats once again. And every year, the cats have ceremoniously ignored it. They have not attacked. They have not sniffed. They have not engaged in so much as a double take to indicate they give one rat’s petutie about that bird… not even when we grabbed their little heads, forced them within an inch of the dove and said, “Look at the stupid bird, you moron!”

The third decoration of our discord was our Nativity set. Every year, my sister and I fought over who got to arrange the figurines. Being the oldest and wisest, I felt entitled to the privilege. Plus I always had new and innovative ideas on how to present the blessed event. Semi-circular arrangements of the wise men; strategic hanging of Christmas lights to give the scene a sexy red glow; even an upside-down flashlight on the slatted roof to bathe Jesus in a halo of light. I knew how to showcase a freakin’ virgin birth my Judeo-Christian friends.

All my sister ever did was make it look like Mary and Joseph were kissing. So I’d hold the manger over my head out of her reach. I’d hide the sheep and shepherds so she couldn’t find them. I’d wait until she’d set everything up, then go in and change it, holding her back with my arm while she screamed at me to stop. Our bickering got so bad one year that we ended up breaking Jesus’ right arm.

Silent Night? Yeah right.

But when the smoke had cleared, and Christmas morning finally arrived, all was right with the world. The blinking light from the star never seemed too bright. The tree was never destroyed because of our pets’ hunting instincts. And Jesus was always in his place as the center of attention. And all of the bickering, the fighting and the petty annoyances of the season were pushed easily from our minds when we gathered around our tree as a family. And for one day, everything was perfect. It was Christmas.