O Christmas Tree!

You buy a Fraser Fir Christmas tree from Home Depot. You dress it up with baubles; you untangle the string lights; hey presto, it's Crimbo in an instant.

 

The lights go on. Is the tree straight? Was it ethically farmed, sustainable and all that? Dunno. Forgot to ask. Has it been treated with harmful chemicals. Ditto. Ah, there's a label attached. It's in English but needs a Thai accent, "Most highly awarded Christmas tree. Superior needle retention with sturdy branches for ornaments. Soft texture and traditional holiday fragrance." And, unlike back home in London's Notting Hill, the cheery binmen of Atlanta will dispose of said fir when lobbed on the sidewalk (pavement) come Twelfth Night.

The Christmas tree lights reel you back, illuminating the dark corners and memories of the holiday season. Take 1979. It's 40 years since my first Crimbo in London. Dad, the ink-stained knight of the Guardian, was too busy/lazy/drunk/whatever to go and buy one. Knowing him to be a useless American git, and wanting to enjoy our first Christmas in England's capital city, I emptied the piggy bank and bought one for two and a half quid from Cruson the greengrocer's on Camberwell Green. A diddy little number from north of the border, minus kilt. Splindly, bare, two-foot tall and quite pathetic, I remember dressing it with Victorian glass baubles (where are they now?) and aged tinsel from the tea chest. 

A choirboy from the age of 7 to 13, some of my most treasured moments of childhood in Liverpool are associated with carol singing and it ranks as one of my Christmas joys. However, they sing 'em all wrong down in Sarf London. I discovered this as a newbie choirboy at Dog Kennel Hill School in the bleak midwinter of 1979. The harsh, tinny accents murdered the most popular Christmas carols. That, along with the outhouse and tracing paper for bog roll, sent shivers down the spine at Dog Kennel Hill School. 

So, I took the show on the road to sing festive music on the freezing doorsteps of Camberwell and Peckham. One frosty house on the rounds stood out in particular. In a thick snorkel jacket, I walked up the drive belting out the lyrics for Hark! The Herald Angels Sing (written by Charles Wesley in 1739). I thought my impressive falsetto would render the hard-hearts of Sarf London misty-eyed. Wrong. There were no old sentimentalists to greet carolers at the stately Georgian home. Just menaces. "You need a license to sing," said the lady of the house, violently slamming the handsome front door in my face.        

Now I must go on the annual expedition to Home Depot and purchase a netted spruce. One so big it won't fit in the car (and the wife has to drive with the branches in her face). I abhor artificial, fake trees. They ruin Christmas. Gimme the smell of pine: I don't mind hoovering dropped needles at the end of the holiday season. O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, how lovely are thy branches! From all of us at HQ in Atlanta, we wish you a happy (and carol-filled) Christmas.