Does anyone besides me think Christmas trees are an exercise in surrealism? I mean, think about it: There it stands. A dying fir tree, in your living room, adorned with all kinds of --- objects. Whatever connection the idea/activity once had to the winter-season-solstice-whatever is long gone. Now it's just, well, surrealism
. Especially at our house. No one in my family is a Christian, so for us "Christmas" is just an excuse to have family gatherings, eat some delicious food (homemade cinnamon rolls! YUM. Chicken pot pie from scratch! Double YUM.), and take time away from the daily grind.
And every year, part of the routine includes a drive to the tree farm, where we try not to fall down on the ice, and freeze our butts off while we wrangle about which tree we want to have die in our house.
What's on our tree runs the gamut from the ridiculous to the sublime: A plastic E.T. action figure hangs next to a hand-blown glass sugarplum. Batman on a ten-inch rope dangles next to a lovely ceramic Father Christmas (hand-painted in Germany), which is itself a neighbor to the one-eyed character from "Monsters, Inc.", which in turn hangs just beneath a lace star made for me many years ago by a friend
. Wierd. All of it. But there it is: A nine-foot dying tree, draped in white lights, and "decorated" with stuff. Who needs art history textbooks when you've got a Christmas tree?