Loose Ends
The ultimate debate
Susan Nienow

For some people, this is a simple decision. I fought it off this year, but the mere fact that I considered it makes me feel like I am selling out traditions past.

We have always had a real Christmas tree. It was our annual day after Thanksgiving event – picking out the tree. Even on the years when we took the tree down before Christmas because we were traveling to visit family, we put up a real tree. And we took down that tree before Christmas so it wouldn’t be a fire hazard while we were gone.

If we revisit the tree issue after my other half and I have spent years coming to a consensus on what constitutes the perfect tree, it could take until next Halloween to make a decision neither of us can use in future disagreements.

First is size. If we are making the change so it is easier to manage the whole project, then the tree needs to be smaller, I said. For my other half, bigger is definitely better.

If it’s smaller, then we need to go through the ornaments and pick out our favorites to keep. The next issue is what to do with the ones that don’t pass muster? Like the paper mache ornament – I would say ball except it looks more like an egg – a black egg. My son went through a number of years when his favorite color was black.

Many of his early art projects look like Van Gogh’s Starry Night without the stars. And we have seven thumbprint mice ornaments, three reindeer made from clothes pins and one plastic Big Bird.

My unsentimental other half recommends – well, you can imagine. But I can’t part with them yet.

While my other half was on a roll, he took the stuffed bear that came from one of the department stores two decades ago and suggested we give it to someone who could use it – like a child. That set me off. We could have grandchildren some day and need to save our children’s things for them.

Mr. Logic risked years of compromising and goodwill by pointing out that neither of our children ever carried it around by its ear or dragged it by one leg through spilled cereal on the kitchen floor. “It’s not Pooh,” he pointed out. “You’re the one who uses it in the sled under the tree every year.”

So I changed the subject to our collection of moth-eaten, hand-knit stockings that have hung by the chimney with care. One has more holes than yarn, but my other half draws on his sentimental side and refuses to part with them. They go in the shoebox with the thumbprint mice.

I ran across an old box of tinsel. We haven’t used tinsel since our dog ate it off the tree below the three foot line and left sparkling deposits in the yard for a week afterward.

Sorry, if I’m keeping the thumbprints and tinsel, I’m sticking with real trees.