The Truth About My Treetopper

Published in the Idaho State Journal in December 2013.

A friend of mine gleefully wrote that her family got a new tree topper this year. I smiled because her tone rang happy, but I was struck with a faint and brief tinge of sadness. Her family didn't already have a tree topper? How sad.

My Christmas tree topper is on the top ten list of things I'd rush to save in a fire. She'd be after my box turtle but before the high school photo albums when my hair looked like road kill.

Her name is Angel. Like a child who comes into a family knowing the family dog as an older sibling, I knew Angel.

My childhood visions are as crisp as these winter days. I remember staring up at her so high and close to the ceiling and worried she would fall. My mom told me over and over that her wings would save her. If I was still worried, though, I could stay by the tree and make sure she was safe. I should call up to her, "don't fall, Angel!"

So I did. I whispered it over and over while I slouched by the tree in my footsy pajamas. My most still moments of my childhood were during my silent watch under Angel by night. I prefer to characterize my mom as smart here rather than manipulative.

Angel is about 5 inches tall. She's wearing a form-fitting, elegant red velvet dress. It's a short sleeved, short dress that showcases Angel's flawless arms and legs. Her arms are outstretched with one hand open and the other with a pointed finger as if she's about to direct a chorus of other angels in joyful Christmas song. Her golden wings behind her reflect the tree's lights and give her a magical, colorful aura.

Angel’s plastic, molded hair is in a neat bun. Her rosy cheeks and genuine smile of her 1970's doll face are warm and innocent. She'd never be cast in a horror film.

Before Wonder Woman flew in on her invisible plane, I wanted to grow up and be Angel.

The truth is Angel might be Tinkerbell. Before some so-called-friends insisted I examine the resemblance, I'd never considered she was anyone other than beautiful Angel. These friends have said things like, "that's not a dress; it’s barely a cocktail napkin". They might as well have told me there is no Santa.

The truth is her outfit resembles a Vegas strip waitress uniform, only not quite as tasteful. Her belt to help hold her wings is a dingy, green rubber band probably from a December 1993 edition of the Idaho State Journal. Her wings hold bits of calcified hot glue on her back and two nails to keep them attached. They are cardboard more flimsy than a cereal box spray painted faux-classy gold. It’s likely lead-based.

Some people think Angel is ugly and tacky. They've called her a tart, a floozy, a bimbo, and a Jezebel in jest. I suppose if you didn't grow up with Angel, you might not see that same magic, beauty and innocence I do. I suppose your truths about Angel might be different than mine.

Contrary to the word's definition, sometimes truth depends on age, faith and the chance angels in an out of our lives. People honor many different truths this time of year, and for me, the key in defining, believing, and celebrating my truths unlocks my endeavors to appreciate others'. Roots of my holiday truths and traditions are found in Rudolph, Charlie Brown, the Grinch, the Nativity and my sweet tree topper, Angel.

Whatever people’s truths are this holiday season, I wish for a peace in the past, a joy in the present, and a hope in the future. ‘Tis the season after all.