At Fox headquarters in New York City, someone set the "all-American" Christmas tree on fire.

As a lover of Christmas, I do not applaud the burning of Christmas trees unless they are decorated with swastikas or severed heads. That leaves a lot of room for self-expression in the area of Christmas trees.

Anyway, I guess I missed the point of the Christmas tree burning story because, rather than applauding or damning the destruction of a right-wing television network's Christmas tree, I got caught up in wondering what makes a Christmas tree "all-American."

I mean, I've got a Christmas tree, and I'm an American. Does that make my tree all-American?

Curious, but not all that concerned, I found out that the Fox tree was decorated exclusively in red, white and blue.

I looked sadly at the small tabletop tree belonging to my wife, Deborah, and me.

"I don't know if you're American enough," I said to the little tree.

"You're ornaments are all kinds of colors," I told the tree. "They're red, white, blue, green, yellow. Only the first three colors are American. I guess the rest need to go.

"And your lights," I said. "They're red and green and yellow. That's not American. Your lights need to go out, too. Then, you'll be American."

We have a small tree because we live on the second floor of a three-floor apartment house we own. There's no room for a bigger tree. Also, we own two cats who would regard a full-sized American tree as an invitation to destruction.

"They have tens of thousands of lights and ornaments on the Fox tree," I told our little plastic tree. It's big, and it's red, white and blue, and it makes a statement about, by God, taking America, by God, back again.

"The Fox tree is a bold tree, a shout-in-your-face, spit-in-your-eye, whup-your-butt Christmas evergreen," I told my little tree.

"And isn't whupping butt what Christmas is all about?" I asked my tree.

I reached out to start taking down our weak, shameful, non-butt-whuppin' tree.

"But," I said. "You were here the first Christmas we were married. My late mother and my late mother- and father-in-law saw your lights.

"I watch you from the couch," I said. "I drift off to a nap with your multicolored lights shining in my eyes."

"Come to think of it," I said, "that manger was a damn shabby thing, too, and the babe lay with the stink of dung in his nostrils.

"You're not big," I told our little tree. "You don't blaze with light, and you don't scream your patriotism to the world.

"But you're a tree in the home of two Americans," I told our little tree. "You have a small, warm light, the light of memory and love."

Patriotism, like black lace underwear, has its place, but you should be thoughtful about where and how much you display both.

Some babies are put to bed in a dresser drawer, and some of them clutch at hay in a manger, and some Christmas trees burn with messages in the night, while others glow quietly in a corner, decorated with the same ornaments every year, some of which are a little chipped.

Propaganda shouts. Christmas whispers. The babe turns in his sleep. The planets roll in their orbits. My little tree is staying.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, a collection of his best columns, is called "Devil's Elbow: Dancing in The Ashes of America." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle, and iBooks.

Photo credit: Pexels at Pixabay