Last week a man named Cory Windelspecht launched the Change.org petition that the state had apparently been waiting for: Move the Christmas Tree on the Holland Tunnel from the N to cover the A.
The seasonal banner which hangs over the New York-New Jersey tunnel had been apparently enraging commuters for decades with its poor placement of a Christmas tree: “For some reason the tree is over the letter N in the word Holland instead of the letter A where it would fit perfectly,” Windelspecht wrote. “[It’s] just unsightly and ruins the holiday festivities for people to enjoy on such a great piece of architecture.”
The people had spoken and the Port Authority listened, conducting its own public poll that generated more than 21,000 votes:
Thank you to everyone who voted in the 2018 Great Holland Tunnel Decoration Debate! Which option won? All questions will be answered at today's Results Reveal event. 1:30pm on Facebook Live. https://t.co/hy5yCyMPUl pic.twitter.com/ywlruiSwWk
— Port Authority NY&NJ (@PANYNJ) December 17, 2018
And on Monday, they made the announcement: after a “groundswell of holiday commentary”, the Great Holland Tunnel Decoration Debate had come to an end. The tree would be moved to the letter A.
It got us thinking about the Christmas decorations in our own homes that we just can’t get rid of – for better or for worse.
Lenore Taylor: She thought it was perfect. I was lost for words
My mother-in-law was keen I open the oddly shaped parcel straight away. We adults usually hang back a bit on Christmas morning, letting the kid-frenzy die down before we unwrap ours. But Margaret had the expectant expression of someone certain they’ve hit upon the perfect gift. It made me nervous. I silently wished she’d stuck to the usual soap and talc, which this very obviously wasn’t.
The paper fell away from a bizarre nativity scene, an opaque Mary and Joseph gazing down at an oddly upright baby Jesus with spectacular neck-control for a newborn. All three were perched on what looked like a mound of white ice, or possibly a wedding cake. I’m not often lost for words, but I struggled to find a phrase. “Oh, that’s very thoughtful,” usually gets me out of a bind. But in this case, I couldn’t imagine what she had been thinking. Margaret urged me to “turn it on”, pointing to a switch on the underside. And Mary Joseph and Jesus began to glow, slowly changing from purple to blue and back again, as if they had a lurid version of the aurora borealis in their underpants.
“Oh Margaret,” I said when I’d recovered myself, “that’s wonderful,” and it was, although possibly not in the way she imagined.
Margaret died a few years after that, but her colour-pulsing nativity still comes out every year, now firmly part of our Christmas ritual. Guests are amazed by its gaudiness. We just like to remember Margaret, who was wonderful in many ways.
Miles Martignoni: Oh no, it’s a Christmas Pig
From the moment we went to pay for him, Christmas Pig has been maligned. He was about $3 at the op-shop, and the shopkeeper just stared at him for a moment, saw the price tag and said, “Oh... just give me 50c.”
Every year we get Christmas Pig out of our box of ornaments and every year the batteries still let him snort the classic carol “O, Christmas Pig” to everyone who comes over.
A deafening silence fills the house once the final squeal is done and I can see the same look of pity in visitors’ eyes that the shop attendant had in hers.
Lisa Martin: vale my beloved pasta art
In the lead-up to Christmas 1990, I was diagnosed with chicken pox after returning home from my starring performance as head sheep in the nativity play at my Perth kindergarten. While there were many itchy days and smelly Pinetarsol baths, I have happy memories of being allowed to open some gifts early and playing games of dot-to-dot on my skin with washable textas.
For the past 28 years, there have been annual reminders of that eventful first Christmas memory. Without fail, a handful of decorations made by my tiny four-year-old hands have made an appearance on the Martin family tree for purely nostalgic reasons. Among my favourites: a silver bell – a section of egg carton covered in foil, stuffed with cotton wool, with a faded blue pipe cleaner handle – and a cardboard wreath of gold, spray-painted macaroni.
Sadly, when I sought photos of said items for this piece from my mother dearest, I was informed she had tossed them all in the bin this year. Weevils had gotten into the pasta art and wreaked havoc in her linen cupboard. I’m understandably devastated and consider Christmas 2018 ruined before it has even started.
Mike Ticher: no one can remember how or why
Nothing says Christmas like a polar bear on wheels, even if two of them have broken off.
This came into our lives so long ago that no one can remember how or why, but its cheery little face pops up on the tree every year, alongside the owl wearing a Santa hat and the gold-encrusted swan. It’s a much-needed win for diversity in the nativity scene.
Kate Waldegrave: 15 years of a sock in a Santa hat
A perpetual child, I have always had a fondness for sock puppets and when the now defunct supermarket Franklins had a red sock puppet mascot, imaginatively named “Red Sock”, I was smitten.
One December 15 years ago, the supermarket displayed huge corflute posters advertising their weekly Christmas specials – and Red Sock was wearing a Santa hat. After doing some shopping I casually detached the poster from the front of the store and walked to the car. It’s the only thing I have ever stolen.
At home I cut his face out and placed him atop my mother’s antique grandfather clock, like some sort of alternative Christmas angel.
My mother is never very happy about the sock and its intrusion into her conservative Christmas aesthetic, but she has continued to put him up even after I moved out of home.
