As long as I lived in Wyoming, I didn’t have much need for a Christmas tree. My brother went up to the mountains every year to cut one (and always came home with something too tall to fit in the living room), and after he moved to Denver, my stepfather took over cutting the trees. I had a few tiny living trees over the years, decorated with handmade ropes of seed and bugle beads (red and purple, very shiny), and a plan to add decorations as the tree got larger, but they invariably died before Spring.
NovySan and I also tried the living tree route, after a bizarre trip to buy a Christmas tree in the rain. It was a lovely tree, but a very strange experience for someone used to trees cut on properly snowy mountainsides. One died in a heatwave the following Summer. Another metamorphosed into such a shaggy bush, only my little yeti ornament might have looked at home in its branches. Finally, in 2005, standing in a parking lot the day before Christmas Eve, staring at the sad remnants of a dozen or so once-beautiful trees, NovySan said, “Maybe I should just paint a Christmas tree.” “You’re brilliant,” I said. Off we went to the art supply store, and few hours later, a windswept glory of red and green adorned the easel I’d bought as a prop for the SF Fringe. We draped it with strings of beads and hung ornaments wherever they’d fit, and the next year, we did it again. The painting was red and gold this time, and just hinted at being a tree. Last year’s painting was a starry swirl of violet, gold and blue.
And this year? Who knows? There’s a blank canvas on the easel now; the paints and brushes are ready; it’s only waiting for the right time and a dash of inspiration. Whatever it is, it’ll be beautiful.
I love the Christmas Easel!