I married Clark Griswold.   No joke.  Not the ‘actual’ Chevy Chase, but the embodiment of all things Holiday.  We respectfully pay tribute to Remembrance Day, and then it is a full-on countdown to December 24th.  Nothing is too kitsch.  There is not enough red, green and plaid to satisfy him.  While I am not quite a Melania-White-House-Minimalist, I don’t tend to go towards all things gaudy.  But he sure does.

It used to drive me nuts.  It used to make me crazy, as we lived in an apartment with a total of six (6!) Rubbermaid bins devoted to the holidays in our storage space.  And in an apartment, that was a lot of real estate.

We got married, had kids, moved to the suburbs, (cue Tracy Chapman) and the Holidays got bigger.  We were that house – the one with the audio-cued lights and the dancing Santa.

Throughout all of it, he always insisted that he decorate a tree in the backyard for me.  Just for me.  It still sits outside of our kitchen window.  To be honest, it used to offend me a little.  (Okay, a lot).  I rebelled at its’ conformist sensibilities and chafed at the subtext of establishment anti-feminist shackles, being a view from the kitchen, while washing bottles, and later, dishes.  Too cliche for me.

The kids grew out of diapers, bottles, cribs and toddler beds, and he still put it up.  Every year.  Every year I would be given a gift of light and beauty in my backyard, for just me.  A private gift for me and for me alone in our space; a tribute to me from him.  A quiet, beautiful moment.

The tree is up again this year, and throughout all of our layers of exhaustion, he has still put it up for me to enjoy.  My tree.  In the face of an avalanche of Clark-Griswoldy-Lampoony-Christmas-Kitsch, he has created a space of beauty and light amidst the daily grind.  For me.

And that speaks volumes.

Thank  you, babe.  It has always been, and continues to be beautiful.

This is love.