It’s supposed to get easier every year. After all, Dear Richard and I have each been putting up Christmas trees for over 50 years. You would think we’d have mastered decking the halls by now. Turns out wassailing might be our best seasonal skill.

We have arrived at the ancient stage of being older and wiser. Older is knowing how to put up the decorations. And wiser is … actually, forget wiser. Our only acquired wisdom? Older equals slower.

Decorating the house for Christmas is now a long, slow slog.

That’s the rub … because I want it all to be like every other year. The same results in the same time. Fuggedaboudit.

Richard dragged the green canvas bag containing our 7-foot tree downstairs. We managed to get it assembled with lots of tugging and a little cussing. Perfectly centered in its corner, I couldn’t wait to plug in its 1,200 lights. Nuthin’. Oh no. We tried all the connections – all were tight. We both took a seat. I almost cried. It took a half hour to find the tiny cartridge that slipped into a teensy hole under the main plug. I swear that wasn’t there last year.

Ta-da! And then there was light! On all but six branches. I’m sure we once had a sack of spare bulbs, but it’s MIA. It is a quality tree, just a few years old and yup, the big box store was sold out of replacements. Eventually, I just hung lighter and brighter ornaments on those branches.

But where was the star for the treetop? A long, time-consuming search and there it was – right where we stored it! Who knew?

I plugged it in. Nuthin’. Oh no. Not again. I bought the gold and shell Moravian star for Christmas 2020 and never got to use it.

My biggest challenge that year was trying not to succumb to COVID. The star actually debuted just last year.

It was beautiful, and this year, it’s kaput? More business at the big box store.

They were very nice and replaced it. That’s as far as we got by Sunday.

Before COVID, I had the tree up and decorated the week after Thanksgiving. Only two years post-COVID, and we’ve been putting up this tree since last Friday.

As I write this, it is Tuesday and I think we’ll have the tree wrapped up by tonight. This year, I’m treating the tree decorating as physical therapy: up, down, stretch to the back branches; up, down, stretch to the side branches. Repeat.

We do have over three hundred ornaments, the souvenirs of many happy memories. Arranging them artfully takes time. Richard just shakes his head and wonders when he can return all the large plastic bins to the garage.

Can you always place your hands on your stash of AA batteries? And D batteries? And AAA? Neither could we. This year was no exception. The artificial flickering candles eat batteries.

We raided the battery drawer — I know, that sounds organized, doesn’t it?

We knew there were more and it only took a few days to find their hiding places. We finally got most of them lit, set their timers, and nestled them into the bay window full of Christmas greens and angels.

We couldn’t manage outside lights this year. We started too late. So, genius struck – let’s just floodlight the front door and wreath. We have red doors on a white house, so only green needs to be added, right? And then we had to find the ground stake for the floodlight. Another long garage search.

They were not together. When we finally married them, we needed to find the timer. Was it with the ground stake? Nyet. Was it with the floodlight? Not on your life. How long did it take to find? We don’t know. We haven’t found it yet. Last night, I unplugged the floodlight behind the rhododendrons in my nightgown.

Disclaimer: I think it’s fair to tell you that we have no attic or basement. All our “hidden” supplies are in the garage. It’s not an excuse for being unorganized, but I think you deserve to know the whole truth.

I’ve decided I am going to make notes before storing our stuff for next Christmas.

I had thought labeling the plastic storage bins was sufficient, except that nothing went back into the same bin it came out of. This year’s will be numbered.

Maybe I’ll put the list in the safe deposit box.

When Christmas comes next year, we will be even older. And probably slower. BUT, I insist, we are going to be wiser.

Just call me Balthazar. I’m the one with the frankincense. Melchior lost the Myrrh.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com