I put up my Christmas tree entirely too early. I'm one of those

Host: The first chill of winter had just begun to thread its way through the small town. The streets were dotted with fallen leaves, not yet buried in snow, and every window seemed to flicker with the premature glow of Christmas lights. It was that in-between time — too early for carols, too late for autumn — when even the air didn’t quite know what season it belonged to.

The camera drifts through a quiet neighborhood, where one house already blazes with color. A tree, tall and extravagant, shimmers through the window, ornaments catching the early evening light like fragments of memory.

Inside, Jack stands on a small ladder, tangled in a string of lights, his face equal parts focus and frustration. Jeeny, curled on the couch in a wool blanket, sips cocoa and watches with that soft amusement that only comes from knowing someone too well.

On the coffee table, written on a notepad beside a half-eaten gingerbread cookie, are the words she’d jotted down earlier — a confession she’d read somewhere that made her smile.

“I put up my Christmas tree entirely too early. I’m one of those people.”
— Rachel Boston

Host: The quote feels simple, almost throwaway — but in the quiet warmth of that room, it begins to hum with something deeper.

Jack: untangling the lights “You realize it’s November, right? We haven’t even survived Thanksgiving.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Which is why we need something to look forward to.”

Jack: “Something? Or an excuse to pretend the world isn’t falling apart?”

Jeeny: “Both. That’s the beauty of it.”

Host: The sound of tinsel rustling fills the room, mingling with the faint melody of a record spinning somewhere — Nat King Cole, maybe, his voice slow and golden.

Jack: “I swear, people like you are the reason stores start selling ornaments in August.”

Jeeny: “People like me are the reason joy shows up early.”

Jack: “Or the reason we’re all burned out by December 10th.”

Jeeny: grinning “Maybe. But for a few weeks, it’s magic again.”

Host: He climbs down from the ladder, plugs in the final strand. The room erupts in light — soft, golden, nostalgic. It bathes them both in the color of memory.

Jack stares at it for a long moment — the ridiculous abundance of it all. The candy canes, the old ornaments, the angel perched slightly crooked on top.

Jack: “You know, my mom used to do this. First week of November, without fail. The house smelled like cinnamon before the leaves even finished falling.”

Jeeny: “What’d you think of it back then?”

Jack: “Thought it was silly. Too early. But now…” he pauses “Now I get it. Maybe she was just trying to stretch the light a little longer.”

Jeeny: “That’s all any of us are doing, Jack. Stretching the light.”

Host: The fireplace crackles, casting small sparks that rise and fade — tiny reminders that warmth has to be tended.

Jeeny: “Rachel Boston said it with pride — ‘I’m one of those people.’ You know what that means to me?”

Jack: “That she really loves Christmas?”

Jeeny: “No. That she refuses to wait for permission to feel joy.”

Jack: “You think that’s what early Christmas trees are — rebellion?”

Jeeny: “Joy is always rebellion in times like these.”

Host: Jack moves to the couch, sits beside her. The room smells like pine and sugar and hope — the kind of air that makes even cynics hesitate before ruining the moment.

Jack: “You know, every year I promise myself I won’t get sentimental. But then I see the lights. And the world feels… softer. Like it’s forgiving us for a while.”

Jeeny: “That’s why I do it early. Because the world forgets to forgive itself too often.”

Jack: “You’re saying the tree’s an act of mercy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A reminder that even in chaos, beauty doesn’t ask permission.”

Host: Outside, a light snow begins, the flakes swirling slowly past the window. Jeeny sets her mug down, her eyes reflecting the shimmer of the lights.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people who put up their trees early are always the ones who’ve lost something? A person. A home. A piece of faith. Maybe that’s why they need the light sooner — to remember there’s still warmth left in the world.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re talking about yourself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am.” a small, wistful smile “My dad used to put up our tree the day after Halloween. Said it kept the ghosts away. But really, I think he just missed my mom. The lights filled the space where she used to be.”

Host: The camera lingers on her face — soft, nostalgic, brave. The glow of the tree reflects in her eyes, little constellations of comfort and memory.

Jack: quietly “Then keep putting it up early. Every year. As early as you need.”

Jeeny: “You don’t mind?”

Jack: “No. I think I need the light too.”

Host: The two sit in silence, the world outside muted by snow, the tree’s glow pulsing like a quiet heartbeat. The house feels alive again — not with extravagance, but with presence.

Jeeny leans her head on Jack’s shoulder. He exhales slowly, the cynicism melting off him like frost.

Jeeny: “See? You’re one of those people now too.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he says softly, “and it’s not the worst thing to be.”

Host: The camera pulls back — the window now filled with falling snow, the house glowing against the cold, the sound of laughter threading through the quiet night.

And over that image, Rachel Boston’s words echo, not as a confession, but as a gentle declaration:

That joy need not wait for timing,
and light need not ask permission to shine.

That even in the early cold,
some hearts — brave, nostalgic, unashamed —
will always reach for warmth first.

And that maybe being “one of those people”
isn’t foolishness at all,
but faith disguised as festivity —
a quiet belief that happiness,
when shared early,
lasts longer.