Oh! Christmas Tree!

We’ve been in our house 18 years this past week. That’s 18 Christmases under our roof this year. Over a long Thanksgiving weekend I hauled out the Christmas tree, set it up and watched as my daughter, who loves all things Christmas, picked just the right spot for each and every ornament we have, talking about the history of this one or that one. And while I watched her, I remembered the very first Christmas tree in this house.

A story that begins, like all good stories should, in a book store.

In the early summer of 1993 a 16 year old high school student came to work in the bookstore I managed. She exuded sunshine and smiles with her long brown hair and bright blue eyes. She dressed like a hippy in long flowing skirts, chiming bracelets and tie dye. I liked her immediately, because really, it was impossible not to. Every shift working with Jilly was bound to be full of fun new stories of family and friends, boys and music. And laughter. Five minutes with Jilly and there was laughter. She was patient with customers, loved books and worked hard. Some of the best moments of working with Jilly came after closing when she would kick off her shoes and gloriously sing out loud while vacuuming the store.

She became the little sister I never had, minus all that sibling baggage.

I got married a few months after we started working together and during Thanksgiving week my husband and I moved into the house we had just purchased.

Our house was - is - modest, and at the time we moved in, we barely had two extra dimes to rub together so it was furnished with second hand furniture and hand me downs from friends and relatives. Still it was ours, plus the banks, and we happily began turning this little house into a home.

While closing up one day after the hoard of Christmas shoppers left the store, Jilly asked me what kind of tree we were going to get for the house and how we were going to decorate for the holidays. I told her we weren’t bothering with a Christmas tree or decorations since we were both working most days leading up to Christmas and would be at his parents for Christmas Eve and my folks for Christmas day. Telling that to the girl who wore a Santa hat for much of her work shift and sang Christmas carols every night from Thanksgiving to Christmas was like telling her I’d kicked Santa in the balls and then choked him with this toy sack. She gaped at me in horror, eyes wide and astonished. “You HAVE TO HAVE A TREE!!” she wailed and wagged her finger in my face, her many silver bracelets jangling an admonishing tune. “It’s your first Christmas in the house and it would be wrong not to put one up! HOW WILL SANTA KNOW WHERE TO BRING YOUR GIFTS?”

“Not happening.” I said, laughing. And then she continued to nag me mercilessly until I shoved her out the door to go home.

A few days later as I was heading to my car in the parking lot after my shift, a car pulled up behind mine and out jumps Jilly with a wide grin on her face, long hair flowing in the winter wind, blue eyes sparkling with laughter. She tells me to shut up and just open my trunk. When I did, she and her friend pulled a small Christmas tree from the car, along with a box, stuffed it into my trunk and quickly got back in their car. As they pulled away, Jilly stuck her head out the window and yelled out to me, “Told you that you had to have a Christmas Tree this year!” And they sped off, two young girls laughing like loons, full of themselves for what they had just pulled off on an unsuspecting friend.

When I got home, I unloaded our new tree, set it up in a corner and went through the box. Jilly, and her friend, as I discovered when I saw Jilly next, had made ornaments and garland from colored construction paper and yarn. I spent a touched and smiling hour decorating that tree with each item . And then another hour or so just watching colored lights twinkle amid homemade ornaments and grinning like a fool. Damn kid, she was right. It would have been wrong not to have a Christmas tree that first year. And every time I set up a Christmas tree in the house, I think of Jilly, construction paper garland and smile.

No other Christmas tree since then has meant as much to me as that small one still does. It was only last year that the remaining construction paper ornament, so cheerfully made many years ago by a young girl with big heart, was no longer fit to be used. Even though it can’t go up on the tree anymore for fear it will disintegrate, it stays in the ornament box, nestled among the others, as a tangible memory of friendship, love and beginnings.