on the lighter side
by Gail Konop Baker
Creating our own holiday traditions
This was going to be the touching story of how a Jewish Girl from the Midwest, who grew up with almost no traditions except for an overzealous renunciation of tradition, married a WASP from New England who embraced Christmas with all the innocence and zeal of a wide-eyed 5-year-old.
It was going to tell how I woke early the Saturday before Christmas and made a great big pancake breakfast, and how we all got dressed in thermal layers and snow boots and piled into the car. At the Christmas tree farm, we’d joyfully weave up and down the paths, analyzing tree after tree until we finally found the perfect one. We’d cut it down and then take turns dragging it back to the car and securing it to the roof. Then we would climb back into the car and sing Christmas carols the whole way home.
Here’s what actually happened: Our oldest daughter arrives home Friday night, four hours later than expected, and says, “We aren’t getting up early to get the tree tomorrow, are we? Let’s not even get a tree.” She adds, “We’re half Jewish. Let’s be all Jewish this year.“
Middle Daughter overhears, raises her head from Facebook and says, “Being Jewish is cool.” “Christmas is so crassly commercial,” Oldest Daughter continues.
“Are you kidding,” Younger Son, glancing up from ESPN, says. “I love Christmas.”
“It’s tradition,” Husband says.
“If you think about it, traditions are too much pressure,” Oldest Daughter adds. “You have to do this. You have to do that.” Middle Daughter nods, although I’m not sure if she’s nodding at that or something on Facebook.
The next morning, we don’t wake early. After the girls’ Saturday morning yoga, Husband is waiting (somewhat impatiently) for us to climb into the car. Daughters say they can’t go sweaty so they take showers. They eventually crawl into the car with wet hair and thin (but fashionable) boots.
We finally find the farm and pull into the lot. As soon as our feet hit the ground, Oldest Daughter says, “I’m cold.”
“I told you to wear warm boots,” Husband says. She rolls her eyes and we all follow him up the hill.
“That’s it!” Middle Daughter says, pointing to the first tree we see, enormous but so oddly shaped I’m not sure you could actually call it a tree. “Good try,” Husband says and we all follow him up and down the paths.
“I’m freezing — could we just pick a tree already?” Oldest Daughter says, after what seems like hours. Husband shakes his head and waves us up another hill and around another bend where more rows of picked-over trees live.
Finally Son shouts, “Here it is. I found it!” He’s pointing at a charming, patchy tree that looks eager to house our four boxes of ornaments.
Then there’s sawing and dragging the tree (mostly by Husband) and then securing it on the roof (Husband and Tree-Selling Guy) and then we’re all back in the car. Husband finds Christmas carols on the radio and “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” fills the air. The girls moan and suggest we put on some “real” music. But Husband doesn’t. Instead he turns up the volume, and I realize this whole ordeal — the groans and complaints, the asymmetrical tree, the imperfection of it all — is our family tradition. And honestly, I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Gail Konop Baker is the author of “Cancer is a Bitch (Or, I’d Rather be Having a Midlife Crisis)” and a mother of three. She plans to Mapquest the directions to the Christmas tree farm next year but knows that she won’t.
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Gail Konop Baker is the author of the recently published memoir "CANCER
IS A BITCH (Or, I'd Rather be Having a Midlife Crisis)" and the mother
of three children. She and her family live in Madison.
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