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This time of year, many families bring a tree indoors and dress it with tinsel and sparkling ornaments. Christmas trees aren't just a holiday tradition, they can be beautiful, even elegant displays of light and color. But commentator Ken Harbaugh says his family's tree is not.

KEN HARBAUGH, BYLINE: Our Christmas tree gets uglier every year. This year, we bought a Fraser fir, cut fresh at a local farm. It has soft needles, that ideal pine-cone shape, and a pointy top perfect for holding a star. But the second we rolled it off the car, I felt I owed it an apology. This tree did not deserve what we were about to do. We recut the bottom, mounted it in its holder and gave it water.

For about five minutes, our tree looked beautiful. Then down from the attic came the decorations.

My wife and I watched as our two children vandalized the tree's bottom half. Katie hung multiple baubles on the same limbs, causing them to bend and bow, as though gesturing why me? Ornaments were shoved directly onto branches: an angel dangling by its halo, a smiling Santa impaled through the nose. Our 2-year-old, Lizzie, sat chewing our Nativity scene, throwing body parts into the tree.

To be fair, my wife and I are partly to blame. We suffer from that common seasonal malady I call ugly-ornament-itis. We can't seem to throw any away, especially those made by our kids, or anyone's kids, really. More than half the construction-paper-and-popcorn curios are mine. When I left home, I inherited these homemade gems from my parents, who were eager to regain their own tree's dignity. There's a 30-year-old hunk of dough my wife attempted to shape into a wreath and a mouse-like creature I vaguely recall molding from melted crayons.

This year, our 6-year-old was in charge of the lights. Katie looped them tightly around the trunk as though dressing a wound. In a way, I suppose she was. When the strand ran out, she dove into a bag of Mardi Gras beads. Shiny purple necklaces now hang in bunches from the middle limbs. When my wife was in third grade, she wrote a poem for Arbor Day titled "What Does It Feel Like to Be a Tree?" Today, she heard the answer whispered through those laden branches.

About halfway up, beyond the kids' reach, the tackiness halts. Cotton-ball snowmen and pipe-cleaner candy canes give way to glass stars and holly sprigs. It's as though our tree got tipsy one night and started decorating itself but passed out halfway through. If I lined up photos of my childhood Christmas trees, I bet I could arrange them chronologically by just how high the ugly goes.

Some day, we'll get our tree back. The kids will move out and inherit their own boxes of Christmas tacky. I picture my wife and I in our holiday cardigans, sipping port by the fire, gazing at our tree. It will be elegant, majestic, refined. Then one of us will venture into the attic for the box we kept behind. We'll hang Katie's clothespin Rudolph, Lizzie's headless baby Jesus and every beautiful memory we find. And somehow, I know our tree will thank us.


SIEGEL: Ken Harbaugh lives near Cleveland where he is currently finishing his first novel. You can comment on his essay at our website,

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