Archives for posts with tag: Christmas trees

We took down our Christmas tree today (yesterday was the Twelfth Day of Christmas so it is now safe to do so).  For the last few years, I have been cutting off the branches and using them to fill the window boxes.  It is a convenient way to add seasonal decoration to the house.  It brightens the post-holiday mood and helps smooth the emotional transition to normalcy.

I find that the boughs will last until some time in February which is about the same time that my thoughts are turning to spring and its early manifestations (such as forced forsythia branches; see February 17, 2012).  I would make a reference to last year’s blog post about decorating the window boxes but it would draw attention to the fact that I still haven’t constructed a compost bin.

It is remarkable how quickly we adapted to the presence of the Christmas tree when we put it up four weeks ago and what a hole it leaves now that it is gone.  There is a feeling of loss, of something missing, a void.  But in as short a time, we will adjust to the normal state of the living room.

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While engaged in elf duty these last few days, I realized that wrapping gifts is a good example of when accepting a less-than-perfect level of “good enough” can be a good thing.  Regardless of the choice of paper and ribbon, the crispness of the folds and the precision of the taping and bow-tying, the wrappings will be torn off and discarded by the gift’s recipient.  Often, in the case of an excited child for example, the opening will be done in a frenzy with little notice paid to anything except, maybe, the gift tag.

This is especially true of stocking stuffers, which in my house are numerous.  If I tried to precisely wrap and ribbon all of the candy, toys, novelties and other tchotchkes that go into our oversized socks, I’d be up all night for a week.  I know because for many years this is exactly what I did and exactly how long it took.  A few Christmases ago, however, I discovered the efficacy of tissue paper.  It is easy to cut and fit around small and often oddly-shaped items and with its soft and crinkly appearance can hide a multitude of taping sins.  Since then, I’ve been getting to bed a bit earlier this time of year.

In some ways, the wrapping and subsequent unwrapping of holiday gifts is similar to the mandala sand paintings created by Buddhist monks.  Packages are assembled (starting with the Black Friday ritual), decorated (albeit with varying levels of care and precision) and arranged under a tree, within stockings or on a table (or some other centralized location) to create an elaborate tableau, a detailed picture of generosity and love.  Then, on Christmas morning (or whatever holiday is being celebrated), the scene is ritually deconstructed as paper and ribbons are torn away and discarded (and aren’t we all excited children in this context?).

But there the similarity ends.  In the Buddhist tradition, the sand would be returned to nature (usually a river or other body of water) to symbolize the impermanence of life.  In our more materialistic culture, the wrappings are discarded (without ceremony) but the goodies remain.

Not sure if the growing season is over?  Visit your local garden center.

At ours, all of the warm-season supplies—soil, compost, fertilizer—have been moved to the back of the yard to make room for Christmas trees.  The vegetable plants and flower seedlings—even the hardy mums—are gone, replaced by pots of ivy and miniature Frasier fir and Princess pine.  Inside the store, room is being made for Poinsettias, the last flowers they will sell before closing for the winter.

Luckily, they stay open at least until Christmas, which gives me time to finish topping off the planters before calling it quits for the year.  After tracking down an employee, I ordered eight more bags of compost, pulled the car around to have them loaded on board, and headed back home.

It’s almost Halloween and we don’t have a Jack O’Lantern.  In fact, we don’t have any pumpkins at all.  Although the weather outside is less than inviting, a trip to a local pumpkin patch seemed in order.  We haven’t been to one in many years, having purchased pumpkins at the farmers’ market or supermarket the last few Halloweens, and remembered a place just a few miles north of us.  After checking Google Maps to remind ourselves where it is located, we set off in that direction.

Our destination was Fishkill Farms which is located, in what seems to me an unlikely spot, near the intersection of US Route 9 and Interstate Highway 84.  Well, the turnoff is located at this most unfarmlike location at the edge of a commercial and warehouse district typical of highway interchanges.  The farm itself is a few miles away, closer to the Taconic State Parkway.

The small road quickly wound its way up and away from the town, over a ridge and down into the next valley.  After a few turns, we found ourselves at the edge of a large clearing over which the fields and orchards are spread.  The farm is surrounded by subdivisions on three sides where suburbs meet rural farmland.  We parked the car and quickly walked through the farm store (quite busy and crowded only three days before Halloween) and towards the pumpkin patch.

The first thing that struck me about this patch is that it is long and narrow, the equivalent of three rows of trees wide by at least a quarter of a mile long.  The second thing that I noticed is that an incredible variety of winter squashes have been grown here.  They range in size from baby acorns through the traditional pumpkins used for Jack O’Lanterns and up to the humongous varieties that are often entered into contests for largest specimen.  I didn’t recognize half of them.  This late in the season, with the vines withered and dead, it looks like the squashes were scattered around what was otherwise an empty field.

The third thing that makes this pumpkin patch interesting—and another consequence of the late date—is the equally diverse variety of molds that have sprouted on many of the gourds.  The pumpkins have been sitting here for weeks in the rain and damp and many have started to rot.  They make a fertile medium for funguses and other icky growths.

We soon found our pumpkins—they spoke to us in the same way that Christmas trees do—and started back to the store to pay for them.  On the way, we passed a mobile chicken coop (similar to those we saw at Glynwood Farm) and then walked along a row of apple trees.  The fruit had already been picked and the fallen and discarded apples scattered on the ground had begun to ferment.  The sweet (and slightly sharp) aroma added another sensory element to the beautiful fall tableau.