Decking the Halls

When I was apartment hunting in June, I had three requirements for my new abode: there had to be a discreet, yet accessible, place for the kitty's litter box; there had to be ample closet space, preferably of the walk-in variety; and, most important, there had to be a suitable place for a Christmas tree.

I managed to find all three, complete with high ceilings to accommodate said Christmas tree, which now holds a place of honor in my front window.

As anyone who has ever spent a weekend unpacking six boxes of assorted holiday decor can attest, Christmas trees can be a lot of work. But they create such fond memories, especially when you have a live tree, which leaves so many reminders for you to enjoy all year long. Last year, my boyfriend carried out the post-Christmas tree while I was doing laundry, so I'm I still finding dried needles in the bottom of my hamper. Nothing like finding a pine needle stuck through your sock -- in March -- to put you in the Christmas spirit all over again.

When I first moved out after college, I decided that I would have a sophisticated, grown-up Christmas tree. My family's tree had always been a hodgepodge of things-the-kids-made-in- school, cute character ornaments depicting our favorite fads and hobbies, and a glorious assortment of mis-matched other stuff. I, as a mature single woman, envisioned a tree straight out of a department store display, with a perfectly coordinated color scheme. Even if nothing else in my apartment matched, unless you counted the fact that all the furniture was plastic.

My vision began to take shape at a "Christmas in July" sale, where I carefully matched a maroon, gold, and green velvet tree skirt to a tree-topper angel in a maroon and gold gown. Next stop: the annual flea market in my old hometown, where I would craft my masterpiece by starting with the "extra" Christmas stuff that my mother planned to sell. As we began to sort through her boxes, I reminded my mother that I was firmly committed to my chosen, and appropriately traditional, colors of maroon, green, and gold. And then I found the rocking horse ornament that I had painted for her in third grade.

"You can't sell this! I made this for you!"

My mother assured me that there was absolutely no more room in the attic for Christmas ornaments, and she simply had to part with this particular treasure. I decided that if I replaced the frayed ribbon hanger with a tasteful new gold one, it would be a "whimsical" addition to my still designer-esque tree. And then I unwrapped the Sesame Street ornaments.

"You can't sell these! We've had these since I was a baby! These have to be on the tree!"

"If they mean that much to you, you should take them for your tree," my wise and oh-so-sneaky mother replied.

"But they don't match! They're not my colors! My tree won't be perfect if I use them." And then I realized that my tree could never be perfect without them, either. I heaved a deep sigh and watched my dreams of sophistication and style float away like Big Bird's feather on a breeze.

So my tree's Sesame Street neighborhood is right around the corner from where the Tasmanian Devil chases the Coca-Cola polar bears and Pooh and Piglet walk hand in hand. Santa Claus strikes poses, not only in his red suits, but in Hawaiian shirts and cowboy boots. My favorite fads and hobbies are all depicted, from the dozen or so cross-stitch ornaments I've made, to assorted ballerinas and toe shoes (including Clara and her Nutcracker that I bought in Williamsburg when I was 13), to cats of all shapes and sizes, including the one that was a Christmas present from my mom to her favorite four-legged grandson last year.

My trees, I am proud to say, are never completely without touches of sophistication, provided by a beautiful brass butterfly from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a couple of Waterford ornaments that the cat hasn't broken yet (knock on tree trunk wood), and the delicate bone china snowflakes that my grandmother bought 15 or 20 years ago at a day-after-Christmas sale at our favorite department store. Being a lighting designer, I'm a big fan of "crystal" ornaments that catch all of the colors of seven strings of carefully-placed lights (including those with the chili-pepper covers). The tree-topper angel still matches the velvet tree skirt, but at the moment the latter is mostly hidden by Goofy in a Santa suit, the Velveteen Rabbit in a stocking, and the frog that used to croak "Jingle Bells." If I ever get around to actually wrapping the Christmas presents I bought, I'll have to put those down there, too.

My ornaments were all carefully selected, not to evoke comparisons to Martha Stewart, but to bring back memories of who and where they came from. Like the handmade Eagles helmet from my best friend, the painted seashell from Gulf Shores, and the French Quarter-style house with glowing windows that was part of my economic redevelopment mission in New Orleans. There's a delicate brass rendering of the FitzRandolph gates that my mom bought me just after I finally walked through them after four years of college and a by-the-skin-of-my-teeth graduation. The rocking horse ornament I painted in third grade is joined by one that my grandmother gave me a couple years later and a cowboy boot from a friend. And my very favorite '70's relic: a fuzzy pink ball covered in spangles.

This year is the first time that I've ever had the 360-degree tree experience. My trees have always had their "backs" to a wall, which comes in handy when you have to tie one off to keep it from falling over (more on that in another post). But this year, the "back" of the tree is facing the window and looking out over the street in front of my apartment building. And all of the passers-by will see colorful lights reflecting in elegant gold, silver, and crystal clear ornaments, and they will, I am sure, think "what a sophisticated and stylish tree." But the real fun is on the other side.