Today, as I write this, it’s a Monday in late February – bright sunshine and 63 degrees. Outside it looks and feels like late April but inside – we are still decorated for all the winter holidays.

Three dangling red hearts festoon our front door. St. Valentine would be pleased that we both celebrate and honor him. Actually the 14th is the date he lost his head way back in the 3rd century, but that’s another story.

The shamrock candlesticks are already set on the dining room table awaiting next month’s revelry. We celebrate St. Patrick’s Day on March 17th, the day that Paddy died, in the 5th century.

While we recognize both these saints on the anniversaries of their passing, Christmas celebrates a birth. A rather important one, as it turned out. But St. Nicholas, the guardian of our Christmas traditions, probably isn’t as thrilled with me right now as his buddies Valentine and Patrick are. You see, my Christmas tree is still up.

Over the weekend, I mentioned this to a friend who commented, “You’re kidding. Your tree isn’t still up.”

“Yup. It’s up on purpose,” I told her. “I didn’t manage to get it decorated until the day before Christmas Eve, just in time for the family to arrive. I wanted some quiet time to enjoy it.”

She was ashamed for me. “Oh, I thought you were just being funny. I didn’t think anyone would actually admit that.” She tried to find the humor in it, and laughed. Sorta. I know. I have failed the tradition, the social norms, and probably my insurance policy.

But I like it. It’s beautiful. The tree is literally wearing hundreds of ornaments and keepsakes, a collection that makes me smile. A lot.

Mega dozens of the ornaments are dated, and I didn’t realize until this year how many were from the ’60s and ’70s. I easily slip into Cape Cod nostalgia checking the seashells and sailboats. College ornaments dangle between angels, teddy bears, and kittens.

The ornaments that were gifts from friends, pop those faces into my reverie. And then there are the Santa Clauses: dozens of fragile glass Santas, stuffed Santas, skiing Santas, foreign Santas – you get the idea. I like a lot of red on my tree.

Since I didn’t get the tree up and decorated in timely manner, I decided to enjoy it at the other end of the season. The far end.

In the olden days, before I became personally olden, I was more organized. Once in a while I got the tree trimmings stripped and packed away right after New Year’s. But it was Epiphany, also known as Little Christmas or 12th Night, that was always my ultimate goal. By then, live trees have pretty much exceeded their expiration date, and the shed needle pile is ankle deep. When I was young, I was taught that people who run well-ordered houses wrap up the biggest holiday and all its ephemera by Epiphany. Not so necessary when your tree is grown in a plastics factory.

When we switched from live trees, my calendar became less critical. The first year I let the tree takedown slide, I restored order towards the end of January. I managed for a few years, until that goal got away from me. I spent a few more years promising myself the tree would be down by Groundhog Day – and it worked, although Punxsutawney Phil never seemed to notice. Then, since I’m so good with hard deadlines, I just pushed it back to Valentine’s Day. And that wasn’t an issue. Until this year.

This year, all the rules are out the window. We didn’t have the tree last year because we had COVID. So, I just decided to please myself — and Dear Richard offered no complaints.

In fact, before he made the coffee each morning, he turned on the power strip activating the tree, the mantle lights, and the bay window decorations just to make me happy. I smiled every morning.

Sometimes I just sat in the living room enjoying the view and all the memories hanging on the branches. The lights remained on until we went to bed.

It looks like the new goal is this weekend — a box of ornaments a day starting Tuesday. As you read this, I should be tackling box 3. One can’t rush into these things. The tree itself will be dismantled by Sunday. And YES, hurrah, it will be stored before March arrives next Tuesday.

I picture all those saints – Val, Pat, and Nick (by now we’re on a first name basis) rooting for me. I’ve told them to keep the Easter rabbit at bay. I don’t want him involved in this deadline. Yet.

Marcy O’Brien writes from her home in Warren, Pa.