Our Christmas tree is an arboreal city, of sorts, quite cosmopolitan, with residents from all over the world: wooden nutcrackers and angels from Germany, a straw goat from Sweden, a tiny painted elephant-faced figure from India. Lots of food and flowers: plums and pickles, roses and lilies. Santas and birds top the census categories. All these odd beings inhabit their own little neighborhoods, some claiming the prime real estate at the edge of a branch. Others reside near the trunk of the tree. There, the tree lights make them sparkle like performers on a spotlit stage. Like Woodstock, this is an ephemeral city. Off they go, tucked away into various boxes till they reunite on the branches of a different tree next year.