I never had a Christmas tree while I was growing up, although I had seen my share; natural and aluminum, decked out with strands of tiny lights and topped with ceramic or straw angels that, truth be told, scared the b’Jesus out of me. My very Jewish mother used to combat the omnipresent images of Christmas tree-ocopia that glowed from bay windows up and down our block by displaying an electric Hanukkah menorah in our front window. She would screw in an orange flame shaped bulb for each of the eight days of the festival.

The electric menorah turned me off to holiday traditions for years. When my sister Ronna had her first daughter, while not converting to Christianity, she embraced the Martha Stewart potential of the holiday. She began collecting ornaments, developed her own set of favorite Silver Palette cookie baking recipes, and started throwing what she referred to as Gidget Goes Goyish parties the Saturday before Christmas. I felt slightly warmer about these holiday traditions, but still had not bought in to the whole seasonal celebration thing.

But Ronna’s daughters, Liz and Emma, loved the holidays; baking cookies, collecting ornaments, carefully packing and unpacking them each year and decorating their tree. It practically occupied their entire front room.

My mother and other sister and her husband started having Christmas Eve dinner at Ronna’s as a yearly tradition. Christmas Eve became our family’s focal point for exchanging gifts of the season, although in deference to the Jewish winter holiday, my mother would wrap her presents for her grandchildren in blue paper.

After my sister Ronna passed away eleven years ago, my mother or sister Barbara hosted our Christmas Eve dinner. We didn’t have a tree, but we had champagne and we unwrapped presents and indulged in cookies galore.

This year being the first in my new home, I wanted to host our family’s feast. Staging the meal itself did not faze me. But for this Christmas Eve, I wanted a tree, a real tree, the kind that fills the house with the scent of pine and splashes the carpet with short green bristles that cling to the floor. I wanted to cover it with very bright strings of lights and plenty of ornaments. And I really wanted my sixteen year-old niece to help decorate. She missed sharing this tradition with her mother. She was only five when Ronna died.

I counted myself lucky that my boyfriend cum housemate had five strings of multicolor Christmas lights and a box of old ornaments from his mother, which he somehow retained custody of when he and his ex divvied up their household. His collection included a small rectangular mirror and figurines of skaters which his mother cherished as part of her family’s Christmas decorations since she was a child.

Last Saturday, John and I bought a tree, a Fraser Fir. We tied it to the roof of his Toyota to get it home, carried it to our living room, anchored it in its stand, and made sure it had ample water. On Sunday, we invited Emma over for dinner. I made a roast beast and sweet potatoes. We listened to favorite holiday CDs, Vince Guaraldi (think Schroeder from Peanuts’ Christmas theme) and the Roche sisters. Emma directed John’s electrical work then hung his decades-old shiny glass ball ornaments around the tree as if she had been working with the same collection for years. After making the salad, I came out of the kitchen to observe their handiwork. I was delighted. Later in the week, I made a tree skirt out of some dark green fabric and placed the figurines of the skaters under a low hanging branch.

I think I’ve started a new tradition. It was a joy to see Emma’s imagination at work as she hung ornaments, and I was happy that we could tell John’s mother Dee that something she treasured long ago had been taken out of the box to cast its charms anew. I think John and I felt very good about creating a feeling of warmth and love in our home in the form of our new tree decorating tradition.

Starting a new tradition in honor of an old one is no small thing.