One of the things we must navigate in our marriage is different perspectives on Christmas. My husband does not feel the same joy I do. For him, it’s more about acceptance. Losing his father when he was a boy left him painfully marked. Even now, the holiday is simply too much for him — the gifts, the preparations, the decorating, the meal planning. It overloads his pleasure circuits, which blow out as predictably as tree lights. 

I gamely ignored him until the most horrible, awful year hit, when Lady Luck turned on me. But that year didn’t stand out solely because of an unfortunate Christmas. The whole year had slid progressively downhill, like butter off a hot corncob, leading to its concluding wreckage, resulting in a hot, slippery mess around New Year’s.

The year of disappointments was ushered in by a family death, which was already a lot to handle. But then I came home for lunch one workday to discover everything on our front porch — the charming front porch with freshly restored Chinese Chippendale railings — was stripped bare apart from the mailbox. Someone had backed into the drive we shared with our Westerwood neighbor and loaded up a wicker sofa, two wicker chairs, a large antique ceramic vat that held our sneakers and an antique-pine room divider, leaving behind a single chair cushion. And our sneakers.

I wept. 

This was before exterior cameras and Ring wireless doorbells captured every package delivery and any porch pirate. These criminals practically had carte blanche. If they’d had more time, I imagine they would have taken the porch swing I’d recently repainted to match the house trim and removed the window box.

The police were sympathetic, but seemed to have nothing to offer beyond suggesting we speak to the neighbors to suss out any intel. Our neighbors, a bit elderly, had heard nary a peep.

By the holidays, I’d been in a yearlong funk. My husband attempted to cheer me up. “Let’s go Christmas shopping and get you a Christmas tree!” he announced one Friday night with enthusiasm. I looked up, startled. “Really?” I stammered. 

“Let’s go!” he said, suggesting we carry cash to shop more efficiently. Both of us had a few Benjamins in our wallets. We went to the mall, splitting up for various errands, and my heart lifted at joining the bustle of shoppers. As I stood with an armful of toys, a nicely dressed woman bumped me. “I can’t make this line go any faster,” I reproached, arching my brow when she did it a second time.

By the time I reached the register and deposited my gifts, I noticed something odd. The leather gloves on top of my bucket-style bag were gone. Heart thundering, I realized the wallet beneath was, too.

I stammered to the clerk that someone had taken my expensive wallet, a gift from my best friend, and she summoned mall security.

As I waited for them outside, my husband arrived, frowning. I kept it together until we got to the car. 

“I had nearly $500 in cash,” I moaned, tears streaming. My husband patted me, looking miserable.

“Honey, let’s go buy a Christmas tree and salvage this night.”

I took my hands down from my face and blew my nose. “I don’t think I can,” I sputtered.

“We’re getting a Christmas tree!” he insisted heartily. 

It was late. Many of the tree lots were closing. We cruised along High Point Road until we got to the former Hechinger’s, which had a tree lot out front.

“Here!” my husband soothed, parking. I protested. I was tired. Dispirited. “You can decorate it tomorrow!” he said, hoping to jolly me along. The odd fluorescence of mercury-vapor pole lights made all the trees unappealing and I stood listlessly.

“I’m picking one out,” he said, insistent.

He chose a tree, noting it seemed to shed a bit while dragging it to the car. I kept my mouth shut. 

“We’ll put it in a bucket of water till morning,” I suggested lamely. 

After spending Saturday morning verifying that credit cards were stopped and reporting the stolen checks, I pulled decorations out of the attic to redeem the day. In the glare of sunlight, the tree looked strangely green. Unnaturally green. And still droopy.

We dragged it in, strung lights and swept up dropped needles. By the time it was decorated, it seemed to have shed at least a fourth of the needles. I didn’t much care. “Why aren’t these needles brown?” I asked my husband, cupping them in my hand. 

“I . . . think they spray painted a dying tree green,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

“Per-fect,” I said, biting off the second syllable

But as the days passed, I learned things. Our insurance agent suggested we file an official police report, versus the mall security report, in order to take a tax loss. Familiar faces came to the house to take my statement. They remembered me, too.

“Tough year,” the officer murmured. “Thanks,” I managed. 

The officers reached out after Christmas with an update.  Asking if I could identify my robber, they produced a sizable album of mug shots. Having pointedly ask her to stop bumping me I knew I could. Thumbing through pages, I found her: polished-looking and business-like. 

She could have been a school principal, or bank exec.

“That’s her!” The pickpocket was known to hit busy shopping areas. The bump-and-lift move was a classic technique.

“She’s a professional,” they said. 

My emptied wallet was found among others discarded in a Durham hotel trash can. 

When they left, I sank down before the Charlie Brown-pitiful Christmas tree. I wanted it gone. The strings of lights practically slid off, taking more of the determinedly green needles with them. I stripped off the ornaments and dragged the very dead tree out to the curb.

In coming months, ground squirrels would quickly scamper over the nuclear green tree needles. Even after we moved two years later, a stubborn ghost trail remained from the front porch to the sidewalk.   

Embedded. Evergreen. Impervious.