Owen B. McLaughlin has lived in Vermont for 17 years. He is a preschool teacher, an avid cyclist and camper, and he loves to whittle wooden spoons to give at Christmas.
I love the holidays and always have. My mother and I typically took the lead to deck the halls, create artistic presents for others, and most notably, decorate the Christmas tree together.
Don't get me wrong in thinking that my dad and two older brothers weren't in the holiday spirit; my mom and I had our little special traditions together.
Our house was a home-based daycare, and parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and everyone in between were always coming and going, with upwards of a dozen children a day. It was a full-on zoo - and we loved it.
My mom decided to create a contest, where the person to most accurately guess how many ornaments were on the tree would win a huge gift basket filled with fancy Irish chocolates, gift cards, and other wonderful surprises.
The contest became a yearly tradition, one filled with suspense that would build enormously.
* * *
One Christmas, when I was 11 years old, we had packed 583 decorations on the tree. Many of our favorites were Scottish and Irish antique glass bulbs.
My mom and I would typically pick up the tree, set it up, and spend a whole day running up and down to the attic with box after box of ornaments and hang them up. It took a whole day, and our tree had to be as tall and wide as possible, basically filling up our entire living room to accommodate the sheer volume of decorations.
So there we were, almost finished, and I was ready to hang the very last ornament on the highest bough. We scooted the stepladder in as close as it could get to the tree, and I clambered up to wire it on, with pride beaming from my mom's face.
I stretched as far as I could to grab the perfect branch. As I began affixing my handmade silver popsicle stick sleigh that I made in kindergarten, the whole tree began to lean my way.
An eye-hook - connected to wire that was supporting the tree - popped out from the wall, pulled by the sheer weight of it all. The whole tree fell forward.
I dove off the ladder. My mom ran over, and we watched, as if in slow motion, the biggest and best Christmas tree that's ever fa-la-la-la-la-ed fall, crashing and smashing down onto the floor.
When my dad and brothers came running in to survey the devastation, I broke down into tears. I surely ruined Christmas. Our community game would be cancelled. I was solely responsible. And, and, and, and, and more.
* * *
My mom directed my brothers to quickly run to the garage and get work gloves, and we went about the task of untwisting the wires and cleaning up the glass, while my mom mopped up the water.
After our tree was re-set (with more secure wiring), and the unbroken ornaments from the back were redistributed evenly to the front, we all looked at the tree with a deeper appreciation. We cranked up the tunes and had hot chocolate.
A Christmas tree represents longevity and how we hold onto memories of our past. What started as the worst feeling ever became my favorite holiday memory. We worked through an issue, and it was lovely because we shared the moment together.
This Voices Memoir was submitted to The Commons.