I CAN JUST see it now. A majestic, towering, perfectly symmetrical tree dominating the entire space around it in the main entrance. It is beautifully adorned with the perfect combination of sparkling tinsel, shining balls and synchronized flashing lights. Delicate crystal ornaments hang effortlessly from its luscious branches. It truly is something out of an upscale department store, and it's right there as soon as you open the door.
But it's not in my house.
I don't need those showy Christmas trees that serve merely to beautify the house. Tinsel doesn't tickle my fancy. Matching balls don't blow me away. And expensive ornaments sure don't enchant me. What I need is a Charlie Brown Christmas tree that elicits fond memories of past holidays with each ornament I place on its tender branches.
I don't care how much my tree's beauty impresses guests. I don't care how much time and effort goes into making it look as perfect and aesthetic as possible. All I care about is that the ornaments my family puts on our Christmas tree are the same tacky, storied and sentimental ones we have been hanging as long - and indeed before - I can remember.
There's nothing wrong with tacky ornaments. Some of the ugliest and gaudiest baubles that we put up add the character and flavor that is the Almond Family Christmas Tree. More importantly, my three brothers and I have been making them for 31 years, and they all have an interesting history or significance.
The Popsicle-stick Rudolph isn't just something I made in second grade. It is a testament to my perseverance as an eight-year-old artist who had to learn the hard way that, sometimes, in order to make a satisfactory reindeer, you first must go through several lame attempts that end up looking more like horses or giraffes or worse. The end product ended up being just good enough, and yet every year I still hang it right next to the tacky Secret Santa gifts and tennis playing teddy bears that somehow have accumulated over the years.
Even though my military family has moved often throughout those years, we have picked up several keepsakes that remind us of our various moves. There's the faded origami Santa Claus from Japan. It hangs near the silver replica of London's Westminster Abby. Near that perches the hologram of Pike's Peak. There are four of the famous White House ornaments for every year we lived in Northern Virginia. And my personal favorite is the red jalapeno that says, "Have a Spicy Texas Christmas 1987." These are just a small sample of the ornaments that have joined our family from the far corners of the Earth, and each one reserves a place on our tree every year.
But the coveted spots on our tree are reserved for the most sentimental and memory-inducing trinkets. Each of my brothers and I have a small brass baby with angels wings from our respective first Christmases. They all have lost their luster, and the oldest is over 30 years old, but each little baby is one of the first to be hung with care by our now grown up hands. There also are a few other babies - the baby Jesus - that always do their part to remind us what Christmas really is about.
Many have just as much sentimental value for my parents as they do for me. These are the ones that were on mom and dad's trees before any of us were born. There's a dove to celebrate their marriage and a peach to commemorate their first home together in Georgia.
Most bring back happy memories like the marriage of my brother, but a few hang in honor of grandparents that have passed away. But no matter what their appearance or monetary price, all are more valuable than even the most expensive Christmas present.
There's more to our tree as well. It's not just the smorgasbord of ornaments that engulfs our tree year after year, it's also the seemingly random light pattern. Sometime before I was born, my father and older brothers decided to just throw all the lights they had onto the tree as quickly as possible - most likely to leave time for the more enjoyable ornament hanging - and it has remained this way ever since. It may seem hard to do, but if you squint really hard you can find some beauty and method to the illuminating madness.
Our tree never will look like the ones you see in the town square or in many people's lavishly decorated-for-the-season homes. My mother always said "dull people have immaculate homes," and I'm sure she would apply the same adage to Christmas trees. The ornaments we hang don't have to sparkle all the time or provide artistic stimulation. All they have to do is bring back memories of Christmases past and provide promise for many more to come.
They've always been - and always will be - there, and I can't wait to start the trend with my family one day.
(Brandon Almond is a Cavalier Daily associate editor.)
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