Discontinue a special effect
The Christmas tree in the photograph looks perfect. Its green branches descend gracefully, as though their only purpose is to display beloved ornaments. The tree is a scotch pine, evenly triangular in shape, the long needles so soft they look feathery. I took two pictures of this tree, a full exposure and a tight closeup where I zoomed in on ornaments nestled in the soft pine needles. In that photograph, silver garland frames a delicate stocking ornament I had sewn. Even the stocking's needlepoint scene is perfect: a snow laden pine tree stands outside a farmhouse whose windows shimmer with yellow illumination. The shiny red glass ornament hanging above the stocking makes the photograph itself look perfect, unless you keep looking at it. My distorted reflection, kneeling before the tree, camera raised to my face, fills the red glass ball, showing the hand affecting perfection.
I wanted everything to be perfect for my children back then, without giving the concept, and its conjuring, much thought. The photos were taken the first year of our perfect Christmas tree hunting. I packed my young daughter into her pink snowsuit, a warm cap beneath her hood, hands mittened, snow boots on her feet, and passed her along to my husband who squeezed her attired body into the carseat. Winding country roads led us over hill and dale through wooded towns to a pretty Christmas tree farm. And Jena cared much more about running through the long maze of evenly lined trees, or peering over the ancient stone wall lining the farm, than she did about finding a perfect tree. The aesthetic value of a pruned fir held nothing over laughing and running freely beneath a blue December sky.
We kept at it, though, year after year. The thing is, with every shaped and fertilized and cultivated and trimmed — thus manmade — tree we passed, our desired tree grew more elusive. Each Frasier fir and balsam and blue spruce had no flaws, no faults, no personality, only indistinguishable symmetry. As time passed and our second child came, our fond family tradition of a country Christmas tree drive raised its head into a fire-breathing dragon from breakfast to dinner, mapping out tree farms, deciding on the best scenic routes, preparing snacks, loading the car, pondering species and color and shape, driving and hiking for hours with tired children missing their naps. With each cultivated triangular tree, frustration and fatigue smoldered. Every conifer looked identical. There was no lopsidedness. There was no Christmas spirit, no wayward branch, none of nature's humbleness waiting to shine beneath the spotlight of twinkling ornaments. Where was the bare spot we would turn to face the wall? The honesty of a real Christmas tree had been cultivated right out of these pines.
July 14, 1974 New Haven Coliseum, New Haven, Connecticut. My friend and I fully expect David Bowie to light up the arena with his Ziggy Stardust persona. We've heard that the band is new on this Diamond Dogs tour, but still don't realize that Bowie's persona is new as well. The space alien visage he'd pruned on past tours rendered the perfect stage theatrics beneath glimmering lights. Surely the flamboyant fashion he cultivated in grooming his starman Ziggy, the psychedelic bodysuits and kimonos, would return in his Diamond Dog guise. Waiting in the dark arena for that opening riff feels like Christmastime, with its excited anticipation of color and lights and wonder. When the spotlight turns on, our disappointment is immediate, though shortlived, as we see that Bowie's shed the perfected starman garb in favor of a trouser suit. In favor of his music beneath the spotlight, rather than his garments. In favor, it seems, of himself rather than Ziggy; of authenticity rather than special effects.
Late on a cold December afternoon, my daughter Mary and I are running errands in town. Beneath an overcast sky, we pass the local hardware store where a row of cut Christmas trees leans against a split rail fence. That old-fashioned holiday sight makes me slow the car with temptation as it suggests visions of dreaded long days scouring endless tree farms for the perfect balsam, miles out in the country, facing wind and snow and biting cold. When I look at my daughter, our slow, simultaneous grins get me to turn into the hardware store parking lot.
Twinkling Christmas lights are strung high around the trees. We have a fifteen foot walk in which to contemplate what we are about to do. The trees are upon us then, which we consider carefully in the cool twilight, standing flattened balsams straight, tamping the stump, gauging size, pulling our fingers over the needles to test for dryness. When a man comes out from the store, slipping into a winter jacket as he approaches, I tell him we're interested in that sorry tree on the end, but wonder if he can do better on the price. "What's so sorry about it?" he says as we walk over. "Don't you see that bare spot on the bottom?" I ask. It's in his smile, that he gets it. It's all part of authenticity, of acquiring an unpruned tree simply cut up north and trucked to our hardware store. It's part of the Christmas spirit, dallying on a tree shaped only by wind and soil and rain, by sunlight and clear starlight. He settles the hardware store balsam into my car, ties down the trunk with a bit of rope, and my daughter and I drive home excited to set up our unsullied, real Christmas tree: to hang beads and ornaments in wide spaces between the branches, to straighten the star on top, to step back and turn on the lights.
| Ticket Stub | ||
|---|---|---|
| July 14, 1974 | $ N/A | David Bowie New Haven Coliseum, New Haven, Connecticut |
| March 22, 1976 | $ 7.50 | David Bowie New Haven Coliseum, New Haven, Connecticut |
Joanne DeMaio is a writer living with her family in Connecticut. Naturale is excerpted from her memoir manuscript inspired by an old Ticketron envelope stuffed with twenty years of rock concert ticket stubs.