Last night I helped a friend set up a Christmas tree and decorate it. It was so fun for me because I haven’t gotten to do that for years. We watched Christmas specials while working, beginning with “Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo” and “Woodland Critter Christmas” from South Park. (Surprise, surprise.)

The tree looked lovely. All silver and gold, with some twinkle lights that have some pretty cool settings. Some people don’t like fake Christmas trees, since they’re not “real.” I have a few friends who buy theirs from green tree farms that use the profits from the Christmas Tree farm to reforest old-growth areas. If I had the money, I’d be all over that. But I also have a lot of personal nostalgia for fake trees, since growing up we always had one. My parents said it was because my dad was allergic to pine, something I found odd considering that we lived at the edge of a pine forest and went camping in it several times a year. It’s since occurred to me that with five children already making the house enough of a messy fire hazard, they weren’t interested in tempting fate.

Setting up my family’s fake tree was my favorite part of decorating the house. It’s OUR tree — the same one every year. The family tree had to be replaced after 18 years of loyal service a few years ago, and the new one they got was so real looking that when they hung pine scented car fresheners inside it, people constantly asked which lot we’d cut our tree from.

Even though it wasn’t my tree yesterday, I still had lots of fun memories triggered by the activity. And no matter how old I get, I still get a huge thrill out of turning out the lights and staring at the glowing tree, reflected in the mirrors and windows of the room. After the decorations were up, we followed up with hot apple cider and watching the old stop-motion “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” That was a blast from the past. I still remembered every word to every song, very amusing proof of the strange tendency the human mind has to lock away selective information. However, it may be my jaded post-internet lifestyle, or simply the fact that I’ve OD’ed on too much South Park, but it was impossible for anybody to keep a straight face while watching the show.

I never noticed as a kid how Hermie the Elf belongs on “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” or how Santa was a raging bigot against those with physical deformities. Or how blatantly sexist the overall narrative is. Or how half the songs have nothing to do with the plot, and have to be stitched into the tale with very haphazard storytelling. But I still love it. There’s something ridiculously charming about it, and it’s an important piece from a pop culture standpoint. It’s influenced every animated take on Christmas I’ve ever seen– from The Nightmare Before Christmas to South Park.

I look forward to catching as many Christmas specials as I can this week, just to get a kick out of the different perspective that I have now. I especially look forward to seeing “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” It’s a fantastic piece, and I never get tired of it. (However, I completely disavow the Jim Carrey version . . . *shudder*)

Christmas specials are tacky. They’re schmaltzy. They’re cheezy. Pick your favorite term. But we love them. Why? Because they remind us, to borrow the words of Mr. Hankey:

“Come on gang, don’t fight. You people focus so hard on the things wrong with Christmas that you’ve forgotten what’s so right about it. Don’t you see? This is the one time of year we’re supposed to forget all the bad stuff. Stop worryin’ about the state of the world, and for just one day say: Aw, the heck with it, let’s sing and dance and bake cookies!”