Every year for almost three decades, the cleanup after Christmas has been a major undertaking. Our house has two fully decorated seven-foot artificial trees, dozens of lighted outdoor wreaths and garlands which can be seen for five miles on clear nights, hundreds of indoor arrangements that play yuletide music when they are wound up or even touched lightly and thousands of tiny Santas, Rudolphs, elves, carolers, snowman guest soaps, holiday greetings towels and other cheerful stuff.

All of this must be taken out and arranged just after Thanksgiving and dismantled and stored in a large structure under our deck just after New Year's Day. This year, everything went according to tradition for the putting up stage, except we scrapped a few of the older ornaments which had begun to unravel or fray. In addition, last year's wet weather took its toll on some of the mildewable artifacts.

It was the putting away process that brought portents of fin de siecle doom. My wife usually takes everything down and places each piece carefully in its original carton or storage bag. Even if I offer to help, she says: "No, thanks. Remember in 1979 how you almost broke grandmother's porcelain angel when you stuffed it into the wrong box."

But this year, there was no such admonition. When I offered to help and said our niece could come over as further assistance, my wife said: "Okay."

"Um, what's that supposed to mean?" I inquired after the initial shock wore off. "You mean you trust us to pack everything away in the original boxes and not to break anything?"

"No," she responded nonchalantly. "Just pack them in any old thing and get everything out of here. If it breaks, it breaks."

So we did. We packed away all the stuff in whatever boxes we found and had dozens of boxes left over. And we didn't break anything that I know of. Furthermore, the whole mess takes up much less space than it ever has despite the addition of twelve new Santa figurines and a flying sleigh this year.

Besides that, we stored away all the Christmas paraphernalia added to the collection since my mother-in-law came to live with us last year. That is enough in itself to adequately garnish a 10-room house, but this year was jammed into the single room, bathroom and closet that she calls her own. It was quite a sight.

Many of the original cartons, some of them dating to the end of the last century, I relegated to the utility room to be taken out with the trash. But somehow the feeling of relief I expected has failed to materialize. Instead, I have this vague sense of gloom, more than the usual post-holiday blues.

I can almost hear those ancient containers crying out for the comfort they have known in storage these past decades. At the same time, my wife seems completely unsentimental about them, taking the whole affair as just another of those changes one must endure in growing older and more mature.

This may be an added insight into the fact that women mature more gracefully than men. Or, as I sincerely believe, we should prepare now for Armageddon, just as the grocery store tabloids have warned us.