Like Clockwork

       Just as I sat down to write my poetry paper on Sunday night, my dad had the brilliant idea to begin to decorate our Christmas tree. For normal people, this would perhaps entail a box of ornaments, lights, a Christmas song or two playing softly in the background, and a few people gathered peacefully around the tree.  Unfortunately, though, as I sat in the corner trying to find some trace of meaning in the supposedly complex ideas of love and blindness and clocks, I realized that making any progress on the paper would not come easily.  As my dad entered the room, he promptly turned on his country Christmas music station up to full blast on his Pandora account and, ever so considerately, placed his laptop right next to me.  Ignoring my death glare, he proceeded to turn on the TV to some warped Hallmark Channel Christmas love story and then, for maybe the fiftieth time this week, complain about my poor choice in trees (he had delegated the task of picking out a tree to me this year, and apparently trees that are wider than they are tall do not live up to his standards. Who knew?), and then began wildly unpacking every ornament he could get his hands on. As he uncovered ornaments that belonged to me (this happened about every three minutes) he ordered me to come  over and put it on the tree.  I grudgingly complied with the first few, but after the tenth ornament and the tenth interruption to my paper I threatened to lock myself in my room.  Completely undaunted by what I considered a fairly menacing statement, he excitedly handed me another one of my ornaments.  I opened my mouth to object, but then shut it just as quickly when I saw the ornament--a miniature china doll adorned in a pale yellow floral dress with a lacy off-white apron.  As I stroked the soft tassels lining the hems of her dress, I closed my eyes and time flew backward, back to third grade, when I had just finished reading The Doll People and had subsequently entered my china doll phase.  I had asked for nothing but china dolls for Christmas and my birthday and little else ever crossed my mind.  As time went on, though, my obsession slowly faded into oblivion and, like clockwork, another phase began: my snowman phase.  And then the Eiffel Tower phase.  And, after that, the rock collecting phase.  And, as I sit right now looking at my Christmas tree, I noticed that I have at least one ornament to complement each stage of my life.  As I continued my paper, listening to my dad and sister loudly and obnoxiously making some kind of cookies in the kitchen, I realized that my dad has gone through some much more dramatic and entertaining phases, including pigeon racing, beekeeping, and flying remote control airplanes.  And, by phases, I mean obsessions. Inevitably, though, with time, each passing phase faded, leaving us only with memories, ornaments, and the rather conspicuous beehive in the backyard.