The glory of the Christmas season gives way to something of a hangover in these early days of January.

The sky is steely. The cold air that seemed so exhilarating as a part of holiday celebration now is ... well, just cold. Our minds, turned mushy by constant reminders that the spirit of Christmas should last year-round, grow again fixed on the day's labors in lieu of peace on Earth, good will and so on.

Trappings of those festive weeks are boxed and stored in a custom that, regardless of how meticulous, will supply mystery to their unpacking 11 months down the road. (That essential electrical adapter -- the one you slipped into a hardware store to get as they were locking up and casting you an evil glare, all because you wanted to turn on the lights one night as opposed to the next -- will somehow be missing the following December, an inanimate object absconding during storage.)

And the tree?

The centerpiece of your Christmas celebration, the one you argued about in sub-teen wind chills before selecting, the one you secured to the stand then turned and turned and turned again to get just the right profile for house guests, the one that took in water like a sponge the first week and shed needles like a junkie the last, is now yard waste.

The salad days of a Christmas tree are darned brief. Nurtured for profit by its grower, dressed up and fussed over by its owner, cooed about by observers, the evergreen gets an everlasting shock once the grand day comes and goes.

From a psychological standpoint, few things look as naked as a yuletide tree whose brightly colored presents have been stripped and dispatched like so much merchandise to various rooms of the house. It is a signal easily understood: the party's over.

The tree may stand for a week or more after this, but the hopeful spirit it helped inspire gives way to a feeling of inevitable doom. Not only does it bring closure to the season, it dawns on you there is a deteriorating plant in your living room.

Thus, our family fulfilled a New Year's Day tradition this year by disassembling the paraphernalia of one holiday on the less festive occasion seven days later. Actually, it wasn't so much a family endeavor, since I drew a shift at the office that day; my wife, contending I probably volunteered to work in order to get out of the household duty, saved but the bare tree for me.

This proved enough of a chore the next day, since the tree was sharp-edged and brittle, not to mention broadened a bit from its tree-lot days, having endured gravity and ornaments for several weeks. With a son unscrewing the trunk from its stand, I lifted the tree and muscled it through a door, the last few tugs distributing needles about the carpet on one side and patio on the other. The tree came to rest outside this door, where it has been undisturbed (and a bit pathetic in afterlife) to this day.

Unlike my purchase of the tree, which was necessitated by the fact I have no desire or expertise in operating a tree farm, my options are open in disposing of it. Trees can be dumped in a lake for the peaceful repose of fish, or they can be ground into nutrient. For my part, I can haul the tree away, pay to have it hauled away or let it decay on my back porch, which is the beauty of biodegradable holiday icons. My wife's recriminations in mind, I don't anticipate getting away with the latter.

Nor do I anticipate being a part of the method employed last night in Waukegan, Ill., heretofore famous as the home of Jack Benny. As part of the community's 12th Night festival, city officials collect about 4,000 used trees and torch them.

For the first time in a decade, Waukegan continued a community tradition that has its origins in the 1940s. Like many municipalities, Waukegan began recycling its trees into mulch in the 1980s. Green thoughts also induced passage of a local ordinance banning the burning of yard waste, a law wantonly violated by Thursday's celebration.

The city's mayor said, "I don't think burning for one-and-a-half to two hours is going to affect anyone's health and welfare."

Maybe not, but keep the fire trucks close. When I once attempted to use a few dry limbs off a Christmas tree as a way of juicing up a spark in the fireplace, it was the closest I've ever come to calling 911.

In burning 4,000 trees at one sublime bonfire, Waukegan might melt the siding off some homes.

Taking destruction and turning it into a party sounds more like a Guns 'N' Roses concert than a civic activity, but mulch doesn't offer much for townspeople to rally around.

"O Tannenbaum," indeed.

Ken Newton is editor of the Southeast Missourian.