I grew up with acres of woods just past the old apple orchard. We used to snowshoe out back and cut down a tree at Christmas time, except my mom called it a Solstice Bush and decorated it with beautiful handmade birds she had crocheted. I loved having the tree in the house, and it wasn't until years later that I understood that there was a tension between being Jewish and having a tree at Christmas time. Full disclosure: even though we called it a Solstice Bush, and we my mother made a huge point of having no star on top of the tree, we had presents under the tree, and we hung stockings on Christmas eve. Now that I think about it, we treated the Jewish holidays the same way, which is to say we observed and celebrated the less religious ones -- khanike, purim, and peysakh -- but we explicitly did not observe the high holidays: rosh hoshone and yom kippur. As I've mentioned before, we were, for a time, the only Jewish people in our town. Others moved in over time, and then I started to get a little more of a sense of what it meant to be Jewish. But back to the tree.
For many years after I left the home I grew up in, after I started to explore my Jewish identity, I felt alienated in mainstream society at Christmas time. I resented people wishing me a Merry Christmas or even a happy holiday, I hated green and red decorations (actually, I still hate that color combination) and I didn't allow myself to enjoy the parts that I actually do find beautiful, like little white lights that light up the night. I was living far from home, so I wasn't around very often to enjoy my family's celebration of Christmas -- by now my cousins and my uncle have married Protestants and Mormons, so we have a very fun, robust Christmas celebration together. (I think I have written elsewhere that we used to do the drawing for our Christmas lottery at the end of the Passover seder.) And I definitely didn't bring a tree in the house.
But when I moved to New York, though, I experienced something I'd never experienced before. The sidewalks lined with balsam and spruce, tended by guys out all night on the street, selling the trees from Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire. I would walk past these trees, and my brain would tell me that I hate Christmas, because I am a Jew, and I am alienated at this time of year. But my soul would tell me that I love the smell of these trees, and I felt for these guys who just had a van to keep them warm all night long. (My first year here, I let one of the guys use my bathroom and shower -- and nothing bad happened.) Last year, I went to see the window decorations at Bergdorfs for the first time, and, um, WOW! And this year, I wanted a tree.
There are things I want in the house that Josh doesn't want in the house. Like music while working, and a cat (he's allergic.) I knew a tree would be a very hard sell from a cultural perspective, but he loves trees. And he loves balsam. I sew balsam sachets and give them to people, and he smells his every morning, as a way to transition into having a good day, leaving the past behind, and moving forward. I figured that would be my tactic. Abigail encouraged me by saying it's not like we didn't just have a very robust celebration of khanike, so why not bring a tree in. But then again, Abigail also grew up in New England, and even has a part of her family who owns a Christmas tree farm in New Hampshire. When I pitched all this to Josh, he shook his head and said he just didn't grew up tsvishn yidn like me and Abigail. (He didn't grow up with Jews like me and Abigail.) "But it will smell so good in the house!" I said. "I don't want to decorate it or anything!" and "When it dries out, we'll strip the needles and I'll make more balsam sachets."
Finally he agreed, and so we went out, late, because that's what you can do in New York, to find his first tree, and instead we found my first wreath. The trees were a little dorky looking, and I was trying to figure out if I wanted to keep one alive with a stand, or just let it dry out, when I noticed the wreaths, and in one horrible moment, realized that I had to get one, because I had never, truly never, done that. You see, in my mind, a wreath is 100%, no getting around it, Christmas. I don't even buy beautiful wreaths made from Autumn sweet anni and wildflowers, because in my mind, We Don't Have Wreaths. When my sister and I sold our family's home after my mom died, the family did three things that marked its transition from a Jewish house to a goyish house: they put a decorative wagon wheel at the end of the driveway, they parked a huge boat in the driveway, and they put a wreath on the door. There goes the neighborhood, I thought.
So there I was on the street, thinking I was going to have a warm and fuzzy tshuve tree experience that would be culturally challenging for Josh, and suddenly I realized I had to get a wreath, and make myself culturally uncomfortable. I chose one made of balsam, brought it home, and cannot figure out where to hang it that doesn't feel completely goyish to me. Certainly not on a door or window, and not on a fireplace. Josh suggested the bathroom, which definitely appeals to my kitchy sensibilities, and would make that room smell great, but I actually want the balsam smell in the room we spend most time in. So right now, it's on the floor near the hula hoop, concentric circles in limbo, but I know that I have to make a commitment and hang it up somewhere. No matter what people think of me.
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