Many years ago I was invited to a very swanky Christmas party in Nashville. The neighbourhood was ritzy and the home was stunning. And then there was the Christmas tree. It was tall and full and merrily festooned. In orange and purple. Yes, only orange and purple. A definite designer tree that looked like someone had vomited Halloween and Easter onto it.

As all the other guests oohed and ahed, I stood in disbelief. To me, this was not a Christmas tree. It was some avant garde fashion statement attached with military precision to an artificial soldier.

I hated it.

And I thought about my own trees, throughout the years. Growing up it was always a balsam. The baubles were individual and exquisite. I remember the year my sister and I were gifted sparkly pink and blue birds – our very own decorations! The lights were always multi-coloured and icicles were the finishing touch. No one gave much thought to landfill in those days; we wanted glitter! We didn’t add garlands or bows. It was all about the ornaments.

Apart from that, a front-door wreath and a few plastic corsages that my mother hung on lampshades, our home was pretty bare of festive folly. The tree was IT!

My grandmother’s tree was almost identical and, eventually I would gratefully inherit both my parents’ and her ornaments. Over the years some have perished but most of them are still unwrapped with great delight every season. And my 31-year-old son still hangs them on the real tree (which we cut down ourselves) with childlike glee. Our lights may now be all-white and we don’t add tinsel anymore, but every single trinket tells a tale. Those memories are precious.

Which leads me to the rest of my festive décor. I have adopted colour-schemes in the past, like the year my furniture was blue, pink and grey so all adornments were silver, black and pink. It was lovely and pretty and very chic. And that was okay for one or two seasons. But I will admit that once I moved to a different house with different furniture and was able to return to traditional red/green decor, I was thrilled! Turns out I am a classic kind of gal, enamored of long-established customs.

I love real greens, augmented with red berries. I decorate my palm trees with twinkle lights. I have a small silver tree, only because when I was a kid I thought only rich people could have them and I always wanted one. I have Santas and reindeer and candles and that old-fashioned ceramic tree that glows thanks to a light bulb. My son has given me various trimmings over the years and they all hold a special place. And we have changed up our personalized stockings a time or two, to accommodate life’s comers and goers. (I keep them all just in case a goer comes back).

Then there’s the real tree. Tall and sparse, to show off those cherished ornaments. Last year it didn’t even get decorated until Christmas Day because that is when my son showed up.

Tradition.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying a designer Christmas can’t be nice. Even stunning. And expensive. It’s just not for me. When I twinkle up the house every evening and turn on my extensive Christmas playlist, I am filled with joy. And love. And great anticipation for my son’s arrival. I can’t wait to share the season with him and watch his face as he experiences everything old as if it is new again. Maybe I add a fresh thing or two. Maybe I don’t. There is still wonder in the yearly discovery.

To me, Christmas décor is love. It doesn’t need a theme or a colour-scheme and it doesn’t have to match. It just needs to mean something. Not to a magazine or social media or an interior designer.

To my family. My friends. And me.

My Christmas décor is love. Hopefully with a bit of style.