The Pine Tree of Palos Street
Every winter solstice, as soon as darkness drapes this longest night of the year, I keep a peculiar ritual, my annual "date" with a fifty-foot tall Pine Tree that stands regally in its coat of evergreen, in some unsuspecting neighbor's front yard on the corner of Palos Street.
I set out bundled in my most smashing gear. . .striped flannel pj's and knee-high woollies, slippers under boots and a house robe over all of that, hoping, praying, as I crunch along the snowy pavement that I don't slip and have some accident that will send me to the emergency room. Dressed as I am, what would sane people think?
But the Pine Tree of Palos Street doesn't mind my frumpish attire. It waits with open boughs and an aura of benevolent approval. I wonder as I stand there running my hands over its black, cracked skin, and listening to the creak of its branches under the weight of the snow and wind. . .
How much of life has this old tree seen?
How many families have lived in this house since it was a sapling?
How many children have played in its branches who are now long gone?
How many have stood as I stand now, in awe of this sage with its whispery song?
I guess the Palos Pine has become my proxy Christmas tree. Since moving to this neighborhood I have not had one in my home. So I come here. It is decorated with nature's frosted cones and lighted with the stars of heaven. And maybe it is breathing a sigh of relief that it was never cut down and hustled into someone's living room--silver and gold adorned--destined for brief glory and then burned as sacrificial fire wood. But that seems to be Life's Rule: the most beautiful are short-lived, while the rest of us grow old and become the guardians of wisdom.
It must be my Teutonic roots that keep me coming back, and perhaps I lack the presence of mind to stay indoors on this darkest of nights. But I will keep my annual date for as long as I am able, until some other tree-worshiper picks up the torch and stands in my place at the foot of Yggdrasill.
As for this year, my ritual is done. I trudge home in my jammies over a frozen Norse landscape, smelling the smoke from sacred fires, and hearing tales of Tolkien spinning in my head, envisioning hot ale and spiced cider . . .
Same time next year, Old Tree.
Still Christmas
It was a strange Christmas
this Christmas past
No presents to give or receive
No tree, real or fake, to decorate
No lights or tinsel mangled
to untangle and untangle
No TV to watch those holiday
specials with manufactured snow
No radio playing songs like
"Let it snow, let it snow..."
But still it was Christmas
The family was together
And God made sure the weather
was cold and the ground was white
And on Christmas Eve I saw a light
in the sky, a peculiar star
And on Christmas Day I heard the choir
shout "Joy to the world! The Lord is come!"
And suddenly I felt the warmth
and the happiness He brings
When it's Christmas it's still Christmas
even without all the Things
And so my heart sings
"Silent Night, Holy Night..."