The Tree Thing

Because Christmas has a lot of moving parts, I begin holiday hamster wheeling in October.

Where to set the tree? Same room in the corner? A different room?

Color theme for the paper and ribbons? Depends on where I place the tree, of course.

Cookie assortment?

What goes in the new front porch flower pots? Should I decorate the back porch, too?

Gifts?

Theme for my annual blog post?

You see how I think.

No matter how far in advance I plan, there’s a fly in the ointment. Every year.

Two years ago, I thought I had the tree thing solved. We have an artificial tree to set up and take down, winding lights on and then off. It’s labor intensive because I try to thread the tiny bulbs along the branches, front to back, to create depth, carefully hiding the cords. Getting 1000 lights on can take days–especially with the advent of my arthritic fingers and knees.

When we realized this house had a closet to nowhere, it made sense to bag the lighted tree at season’s end and set it inside. Next Christmas we’d simply pull it out and plug it in. An enormous time saver.

This year after hanging my grandmother’s snowflakes and our friend Mary’s lullaby mice on the already lighted tree, I felt briskly accomplished. Then the calamity struck. An entire section of lights went black. Two mice rocked in the dark.

Now what?

Cliff’s fine with it, knowing the time required to remove decorations, to untangle lights, and to add a new set. “It’s not that bad,” he assured me. “Barely noticeable.” I have to admit that no one would run screaming from the room over my blacked-out portion.

But I’ll see it. I’ll stare at that unlighted section and perseverate. Night after night.

Certain voices come to mind.

When I was a little girl, my dad used to say, “Karen, you can’t see the forest for the trees.” I could tell he wasn’t upset. He said it with parental knowledge that it would be my lifelong battle.

My mother, a perfectionist’s perfectionist, used to say, “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” (And she meant extremely well.)

Cliff has devoted more than thirty years to helping me embrace his handy Theory of  Good Enough.

Maggie often chimes in with: “Mom, even in nature, things aren’t perfect.”

For now, I move on to decorating the living room, where no lights are involved.

So far.