This year my husband bought a big Frasier fir for our Christmas tree. In fact, if the angel on top wasn’t so busy praying, she could reach her hand up and touch the ceiling.

Two weeks ago, the grandchild came to help decorate. The little one especially liked the lower, right side of the tree and put about a third of the ornaments there. I kept encouraging the child to branch out and decorate in other places, but a favorite part of the tree is a favorite part of the tree, grandma.

Later that evening, I noticed that several of the ornaments looked unhappy. The clay star kept poking the seashell angel, who couldn’t see because the candlestick was in the way. One of the origami angels had turned her back on both the snowman and the candy cane to pout because she was stuck way in the back. When I saw that the wooden reindeer was preparing to leap off the tree, I intervened. Nothing saddens me more than suicidal Christmas ornaments.

After putting everyone in their place as I am won’t to do, I settled into my rocking recliner as my husband reclined on the couch to “rest his eyes,” as in: Did you have a nice nap? I wasn’t sleeping. Well, you were snoring. No, I was just resting my eyes. The tree stood in the corner, not snoring, and suddenly leaned forward as if it had something to say to me. Then in a perfect imitation of my husband, it reclined on the floor in front of me, resting its lights.

My husband may be sixty, but he can still leap like a young man. He pulled the tree up and leaned it into the corner while I cleaned up the mess. We only lost one ornament, a glittery little heart that shattered, much like my little heart when I was a child and my sister broke my arm. You can read about it here . (Hi sis, and Merry Christmas.)

Thankfully, the lights pulled out of the wall socket when the tree fell because most of the water in the tree holder splashed out onto the carpet.

Husband blamed it on the cheap, piece-of-junk tree holder, so we hurried over to a big box store to find a not-a-piece-of-junk one. (Manufacturers, you are missing a large group of consumers out there by not putting “This is NOT a piece of junk” on your products.) We bought one that looked sturdy, but because you can never be too sure or too safe, after we got the tree situated in the new container, my husband nailed the tree stand to the floor. Through the carpet.

This is not the first time he has put nails in the carpet. The floors in the back bedroom squeak and to make them stop channeling mice, he drilled in special screws with break-off tops. They would not be silenced.

The tree, however, continues to stand, bearing lights and memories of Christmases past, minus that tiny heart, because when my husband says stand, he means stand, and if you don’t, he will nail you to the floor, Mr. Christmas Tree.

Now you know why I love that man. Thirty-one years ago this month, he nailed me to his heart, and I’ve been standing here beside him ever since, a little less glittery than when we started, but bearing a thousand memories of our lives together.

Merry Christmas, everyone. By reading, commenting, sharing, writing, and making me laugh and cry, you have given me many more memories to decorate my life.

(If you want to read more about trees and their kindnesses, see the post at youknewwhatimeant.)