Once upon a time, my mother bought a Christmas tree. Not a real one. Anyone who lives or has lived in New York knows that closet space is a commodity on par with an apartment is to begin with. Imagine storing a large Christmas tree box plus the ornament boxes plus the lights plus the plus the plus the . . .
You get the point.
When I was 12 or 13 my mother put up a Christmas tree, and we never took it down. It was no longer a Christmas tree but an every-day tree, our year round tree, our always there tree. And you know what? You know those people who say that Christmas every day would spoil the magic, would make what is special merely ordinary? Well, those people are so WRONG! I loved having our tree up every day, and I never ever felt cheated out of the experience of decorating the tree. We would turn the lights on occasionally but most of the time we just enjoyed the many colorful, mostly handmade ornaments every day.
And I still had the pleasure of waking up on Christmas day to a tree surrounded with gifts, beautifully wrapped, and mostly for me. My mother was partial to tissue paper and would use thick yarn to make bows. Pink paper with purple yarn or white paper with layers of red, purple, and red. The gifts were rarely perfectly color coordinated in the Martha Stewart ideal but they were still coordinated, a gypsy rainbow that was simple and dazzling.
So having the tree up year-round didn’t compromise the magic of Christmas. Not at all.