Before we all left for Thanksgiving, my housemates and I assembled a Christmas tree for our dining room. We got it for free from our neighbor who I’ve never talked to. All I know is that she gardens and gives people Christmas trees and string lights, so according to Hallmark movies she’s probably Santa’s daughter.

Although, I did question her benevolence while putting it together because this thing is janky. Granted, none of us really knew what we were doing so it could just be a flaw in execution. The sizable gaps, lumpy silhouette, and lack of lovely pine smell make this a far cry from the real trees I proudly grew up with. But we’ve made the most of it, filling in some of the holes with paper snowflakes and folding back the wire branches here and there to make it mostly conical from most angles. I find that I don’t mind that it’s not a real tree. I still get excited every time we turn the lights on and like sitting in this room more than the others. (And, very authentically, it did shed quite a few needles)

As a kid I was a passionate advocate for buying real trees. When friends would come over, I’d proudly dim the lights to show off that year’s jewel. Some people oohed and aahed appropriately, the rest must not have had the capacity to appreciate beauty. It was a tragic marker of adulthood the first year when I wasn’t there to help pick it out. My mom asked permission to go without me to the traditional spot in town where the pre-cut trees were sold (the one with the yurt, not the one by Kroger). I understood that we’d risk getting an inferior option if they waited until I was done with exams, so I told them to go on without me. I probably shed a single tear while staring out my third Veenstra window, mournful but proud of my selflessness.

I’ve helped set up Christmas trees in just a few homes—this current, lumpy yet increasingly-beloved tree, my own family’s, and my grandparents’ just one time when I was a kid. One of my few distinct memories of my grandpa is from that occasion. I was over at their apartment without my siblings or a parent, which I think was rare. The tree had already been put together but they asked me to help with the ornaments. I was probably eight or so and somewhat intimidated by my grandpa. From what I remember we didn’t talk too much, although my dad tells the story that when asked what kind of pie he wanted for dessert he’d just smile and say, “yes.” To me that always seemed like a sign of good character.

He sat on the couch and I stood next to the tree with the box of decorations on the floor. I was unsure of the protocol—was I supposed to talk to him while I did it or turn my back to him and just get it done? In my mind, decorating your Christmas tree was a very personal and reverent experience, so surely he would want to be involved. Each time I unwrapped an ornament I would hold it up and ask him where he wanted it to go. I remember him being very patient through what I’m sure was a tedious experience, alternating between giving a suggestion and encouraging me to decide. At some point a precedent was set and I couldn’t break the loop—after asking for his input so many times in a row I felt it would be rude to not.

I wouldn’t describe that process as being particularly fun, trapped in a cycle of courtesy and insecurity I was, but looking back I’m thankful to have my own memory of this man who I never really got to know, except through other people and the occasional family video. Maybe he was just stuck on the couch and putting up with me, but my memory of his demeanor at the time has a kind and patient warmth. And now that I’m older I can understand what it’s like to not care so much where each ornament goes, or even what kind of tree I’m hanging them on. (Sappy line, pun intended:) It matters more who you do it with.

Christina Ribbens

Christina Ribbens (’19) studied history, studio art, and data science at Calvin and public humanities at Georgetown. She now lives in the part of Virginia that’s almost Washington, DC where she helps award grants to arts nonprofits. She takes a lot of walks to admire the landscaping in peoples’ front yards, mostly listens to British comedians’ podcasts, and likes to make friends via sports.