Notes on taking down the Christmas tree, which I did yesterday, because the village comes to collect dry trees in my neighborhood on early January Mondays. First, no one wants to help. Other members of the household don’t mind putting on decorations, but no one cares much for taking them off. No surprise there.

Once unadorned, the tree goes from its month-long position in the living room, around a left turn into the “foyer,” then out the front door. From there it’s a direct line to the edge of the street, where it sits with the regular trash and recyclables.

Also unsurprisingly, the tree leaves a thick path of pine needles in its wake. These are mostly vacuumed or swept up before long, but it will be days or weeks before the last visible needles disappear, and others hide for months or longer. There are probably a needle or two from ’00s trees behind some of the larger pieces of furniture several feet from where any Christmas tree ever stood or passed by on its way out.

Also, there’s always one bit of decoration — not counting the icicles — inadvertently left on the tree, which then falls off on the way outside. It doesn’t matter how thoroughly you examine the bare, dry tree. Sometimes I’ve taken a flashlight and shined it on interior branches, though I didn’t do that this year.

Doesn’t matter. There’s always something clinging to the bitter end, and so it was this year. But it was one of the uglier decorations, a plastic Santa. It could have vanished and I’d never have missed it. I found it just outside the front door.

One year I found a small wooden decoration in the snow out where the tree sat, waiting to be hauled away. I wouldn’t have missed it either. Why hang such forgettable items on the tree at all? That’s a question for another day, one in December, about the informal aesthetics of your tree.