© 2008 Ann Carol Ulrich. All Rights Reserved.
OWEN SAT IN THE STUDENT UNION where Tory had
agreed to meet him after her class. He opened his soc' book,
oblivious to the hustle-bustle of student activity. Nearby two
student workers decorated a large evergreen tree. They had
already strung lights on the long-needled pine, and a girl stood
on a stool while her helper handed her ornaments. It was then
that Owen noticed that "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" was
playing in the background.
Another Christmas season, he realized, was upon them. How he
hated this time of year, all the damn fuss, all the stupid
excitement, all of the phony sparkle and glitter of garlands, of
annoying jingle bells, of ridiculous snowmen, bug-eyed reindeer
and silly Santa Clauses.
It seemed everywhere you looked there were Christmas
decorations, on campus or downtown. The stores had transformed
into overpopulated mazes where people bumped into each other and
long lines were the rule. Clerks, looking drained and
overworked, couldn't help being rude, and little kids bawled
because their parents wouldn't buy some silly trinket.
Owen looked at the tree and thought it a shame so many fine
trees had to be murdered each year -- just so families could
erect them in their houses for a week or two, only to discard
them on New Year's Day as if they were rubbish.
He had been 3 or 4 when he had waded through snow up to his tiny
waist. Bundled in a red snowsuit, boots and mittens too big for
his hands, he followed his mom and dad up a tree-covered slope
off the road. Dad carried the ax and Mom laughed as Owen flailed
about in the ocean of whiteness, purposely falling because it
was soft and he liked the crisp wetness. His memory of Dad
cutting that first Christmas tree was as if it had happened last
week.
And each year after that, the family made a tradition out of
getting the tree and taking it home for Christmas. He recalled
the presents stacked high around it on Christmas morning and the
colored, blinking lights each night as he'd lie on the carpet
next to the fire, studying the shiny wrapped gifts. Then Mom
taking him to his bed and reading delightful stories about
reindeer and elves and shoemakers and sugarplum fairies. The
coziness of it all warmed him for a second or two.
Then, suddenly, he caught himself. With a slight jerk, Owen
returned to his book. Now "We Three Kings" was playing. He
wished they'd put on some Amorphis or Deceased. He was starting
to get depressed. Christmas treason. What a joke it was. Each
year it seemed to get a little worse.
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