People like Webster Groves resident Gary Zehnle and the dedicated residents of Candy Cane Lane fill me with awe and wonderment. Each November, they spend hours upon hours trimming the trees surrounding their houses—and their neighbors’. For months, they plot and plan how to raise the bar from what was done the year before. They are, in some more jaded individuals’ minds, obsessed.
I used to be the same way. I would theme the tree—one year red, the next silver, the third gold, the fourth blue. I spent a ridiculous amount of time getting the lights perfectly placed, storming through stores for new ornaments, trimming out every limb with bows, then turning to each unadorned tabletop and loading it up with yuletide tchotchkes. I even made needlepoint stockings. In fact, I have a tree skirt that I’ve been working on for about, um, 20 years. I baked peanut-butter blossoms, pecan balls, brownies, and shortbread and packaged them carefully in cute tins. At least, I did until the day I was visiting a friend in Kansas City and her 5-year-old son, Danny, tugged on my skirt. “Are you the lady who sends the stale cookies?” he asked. I was. I stopped.
Today, I look at the holidays with a shrug and a sigh.
Now I only dream of getting away. In 2007, the year both of my parents passed away, I decided the only way to survive the sadness was to head out of Dodge before December 25 hit. So my husband, our daughter, and I spent a week on Sanibel Island. What would have been unfathomable to me during my crazy-for-Christmas period was, in a word, fabulous. No sleet or snow, only sun. No fretting and rushing, simply hours of reading by the pool. No one acting out, only good family time together, riding bikes, walking the beach, and eating seafood.
Now, when we stay home, I decorate—a little. But as I do, I whisper a new mantra: “Next year in Cabo or Cancún or Caracas.” I’d be thrilled to leave the trimming to the pros, like Zehnle and those living on Candy Cane Lane.
