As is the tradition, right after the days of fall rolled into December, my wife and I got out the Christmas tree. After it was set up, we began pulling the ornaments out of a box and placing them on the branches.
There was the little Irish snowman with a chipped hat and missing carrot nose.
And the weird cotton-ball-twig bear (or maybe a reindeer; it seems to have antlers; it’s hard to tell) with a droopy mouth and half of his cotton ball face stretched out into an explosion of pouf.
And the animal of indeterminate species with a sprig of miniature jingling bells sticking up from the center of its head.
These odd creatures were followed by a hedgehog missing an eye, a raccoon that looks like it’s been hit by a car, and an elephant that appears to have been made by gluing wood chips together and indiscriminately throwing glitter on the glue while it was still wet.
These ornaments didn’t break over time after years of storage. I didn’t reluctantly accept the weird ones as presents. The oddly colored and mismatched creatures weren’t inherited and put up out of nostalgia rather than choice. No, I chose them just the way they are from day one. Paid money for most of them, too, in fact.
Together, along with a scary owl, a mouse with legs more than twice the length of its body, a bear with a leaking beanbag stomach, and many more, they form the tree of misfit ornaments, a holiday tradition.
It all started at Christmas time when I was in high school. I entered the school cafeteria for lunch one day, and right inside the cafeteria doors, there was a table set up to sell holiday decorations. The items that caught my attention the most were the snowmen made of stuffed socks that refused to stand up straight. The top two balls kept flopping over to the side, while the heavier base remained firmly in place.
I thought they were the most ridiculous things I had ever seen. Someone actually wanted me to pay money for this? Who the hell would make something this crappy, let alone ask people to buy it and expect to succeed?
I proceeded to make fun of the snowmen with my friends. I mean, seriously, they were absolutely ridiculous looking; I couldn’t help myself. But it was around that time that I noticed who was selling them and why: The special-needs students made them and were selling them to raise money for a Christmas party for their class.
Fuck.
Saying that I felt like the biggest asshole on the planet doesn’t even begin to cover it. I scrounged up all the money I had and bought the most expensive decoration on the table. It didn’t help. I still felt like an asshole. And I put my feelings of guilt onto every inanimate object on that table.
I felt bad for the decorations that weren’t going to wind up in someone’s home for the holidays. Would the remaining snowmen ever be adopted? Will the Santa ornaments wind up on someone’s tree?
I didn’t have the money that day to buy everything, but every holiday season since then, I’ve made it my mission to take home every broken, bizarre, ugly, and sad-looking ornament and decoration I come across. My wife has joined me on this quest, and we’ve formed quite the collection together.
Like the reindeer that looks like he was created by braiding hair into a circle and then gluing together pieces of wood and pipe cleaners. Or the weird moose (reindeer?) with a goofy grin who was all alone on a shelf with no more friends to keep it company. Or the moose buddies I bought together because I worried someone would buy one of them and leave the other all alone.
Even though I love the kooky array of decorations that adorn my house over the holidays and don’t at all regret their presence, I still learned something from that incident way back in high school: If you’re going to be a douchebag about something, at least make sure you’re fully informed on what you’re being a douchebag about. Otherwise, be prepared to spend the next 12+ years of your life making up for it.
Happy holidays from the guy who started it all.
The Procrastinating Writer 
