Uprooting Traditions: Christmas 2020

Decorating the Christmas tree at my grandparents’ house was a tradition I anticipated every year. Boxes came down from the attic or whatever closet they’d been tucked in to, one by one until the last one was recovered from some hidden corner. I still feel a sense of wonder to think of unboxing them: my Aunt Mary’s needlepoint snowflakes, the antique glass ornaments, a dried flower arrangement glued to sheet music, and of course, the tinsel-outlined tree topper.

I was proud to tell my friends at school that my grandfather planted a Christmas tree for each of the grandchildren on their land. When we were four years old and possibly old enough to appreciate the memory, that was the year we would get our tree. Eventually, four of us granddaughters had trees rooted in front of their home.

Of course I still have a hazy memory of planting any trees, and even less memory of the watering and care it took to support the young transplant. Looking back, I’d never thought about the logistics of the tradition. I called my grandfather to ask about it just because I wanted to hear him talk about it. He told me he’d started the tradition thinking of how after his father passed away, his Aunt Marie had bought a tree and planted it in the yard. Just a way to express care, to do something for “so-and-so,” he explained.

You can buy these trees with their roots still intact at certain nurseries or tree stands. The thing about these young trees is that they do require quite a bit of care —if you can keep up with their supply of water in the house, once you’ve planted them outdoors, there’s fertilizing, and watering. It can be a feat to raise one of these trees to maturity.

Sadly, “our” trees that once stood in front of their house have since succumbed to a variety of unfortunate events. My dad forgot to water my sister’s while my grandfather traveled for work, and mine was struck by a car that ran off the highway. An artificial tree became the new norm.

I’ve lived in Jackson for ten years now, and each year I miss those traditions a little more deeply. I’m glad I picked up the phone to interrogate my grandfather, to hear a few more stories that bind me to them as my own life has taken shape a few hours away.

I’d never been to a Christmas tree farm until two years ago when I joined my friends at Falcon Ridge Farms. We all loaded up into the trailer pulled by a tractor and got soaked in the rain as the downpour hit before we even made it to cutting down a tree.

Last year, I returned to get the full experience with my roommates. We stuffed the tree in her Prius, squeezed it through the front door, made salt dough ornaments (yes, even one to commemorate my dog’s first Christmas), and put up the few ornaments I’d collected over the last few years.

I’m a transplant to Jackson, so while it never feels quite as familiar and rooted as home, it has given me a chance to see the ways that we can connect to the place we’re in and the people we’re around as simply as cutting down a tree together.

Although I won’t be planting a tree in my yard this year — one of the things I’ve had to adjust to is the fact that as a single twenty-something, I’m somewhat transient. Things look different sometimes than the memories of my favorite traditions, but every year there are opportunities to make something of this specific time and place even when everything familiar has been uprooted.

This year, I can feel the strain of everyone around me adjusting to the holidays in the midst of a pandemic. Our gatherings look different, and our traditions might be changed. It’s not easy, and we know the loneliness that the restrictions of COVID-19 bring for many.

One of my favorite musicians, Andrew Bird, hosts a concert each year during Christmas called Gezzeligheid. As he describes it, “It all began in a crowded bar in Amsterdam on a frigid night in February when a woman squeezed in next to me and said “oh gezellig!” The closest translation of that word would be cozy, or the pursuit of those things which get us through the darkness.”

It felt wrong to sit across the room and give my grandparents an elbow bump instead of a hug the one time I’ve seen them all year. It is sad to have fewer opportunities to gather, to turn on the news and hear of the loss of somebody’s loved one on the news, to wonder when we’ll get through this.

I’m hanging a few lights on my rental house for the first time this year. Our neighborhood has been conspiring on Facebook to fill up the streets with Christmas lights, and people have been sharing lights and decorations and mapping all of the houses for people to visit. It’s barely a pinch of goodness in a year that most of us can at least agree has been hard.

What if this year, in our homes, in our neighborhoods, in our towns, if we took this moment of disruption to our normal traditions to reimagine how our holiday traditions might become small acts of hope?

Our small gatherings, made in hope that we will all crowd around the table together again. Our masked squints instead of smiles, with hope that our healthcare heroes might find hospital beds less full. Maybe we are tired of zoom calls and drive-thru events, but it’s been a wonder to see the creativity of people who have made efforts to create something special even during a pandemic — downtown, you can find window decorations dedicated to our frontline workers. Tomorrow is Giving Tuesday, an opportunity to shift our focus on what we’ve lost this year to what we have in abundance that we can give back to organizations who are facing the many challenges of this year and still serving those in need. None of this makes any of the pain and loss of 2020 go away, but it can bring some light to get us through the darkness.

Courtney Searcy is the Program Director of Our Jackson Home at theCO. Jackson became home after she graduated from Union University in 2014, where she studied Graphic Design and Journalism. She thinks the best things in life are porch swings, brunch, art, music, and friends to share it all with.

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