The Christmas Tree is Dad's favorite thing in the world--maybe even topping whiskey. Now that he's sober these past few years, the tree is most decidedly his favorite thing. Unfortunately, in this house, everyone else would like to slip by with an artificial tree. Hang an attached plastic string of lights and other fancies, and call it a Yule Tradition. (Well, almost everyone else..).
For the second Christmas in a row, Dad has gently elicited my help in trimming and watering "a real tree". Kev and he go out to the same local civic organization lot; haggle; pick out the tallest tree there; haggle; tie it to one of several vehicles; haggle; lop of the top three feet--usually leaving a piece of trunk the size of a tangerine, which then needs "whittling down" to fix the star at the top. Then, still haggling, they get it smushed into the living-room, jammed in a tree stand that screws in four pieces of metal and sets the wet tree in a pot of water. Covered in pitch and sweat, Kev grabs a beer and exits, cussing under his breath. Headed home to his own smells of warming plastic and no fallen branches.
Then, Dad goes into his secret workroom in the cellar.There, he uncovers myriad hoards of boxes, which he has been collecting through the decades--and protecting from filching by his children, his grandchildren and his spouse. He is an organized collector, though. Each box is lovingly marked with dates and contents. Each ornament--whether it be plastic or blown glass, is adoringly wrapped in parchment-like kleenex. Dad even saves the tinsel.
"He what?!" I asked on the phone once, years back, from California.
"He's been taking each strand of silver tinsel off the tree, before he hauls it to the curb, after Christmas. Then he uncurls each piece and puts it in a special box..." Kev informs me.
I thought he was exaggerating--still a bit sore from the tree installation at 88 Maple, each year.
No hyperbole. Dad carefully unwraps the tinsel and proceeds to lay it on the couch. Then, while Mom and everyone else (our house has an unremitting stream of relatives and visitors--all the more intense, this year, as Dad lost his bid for the city council and people are still coming by to wish him adieu.) are out shopping, Dad begins, in the silence of a little boy with his fingers inching towards the forbidden cookie jar, to decorate the tree. And because, as the "squatter" and "returned Cartoon-from-California-artist", I am his "go-to" accomplice.
"They laugh because I saved the tinsel, but you know, the factory that makes this stuff closed down. You can't get it anymore!" Dad points out, as he uncurls a static-clinging strand from his thumb.
Dad has no sense of design. He's an amazing workman and can jerryrig anything from nothing--but his artistic touch is sadly lacking. He's the first to admit it, too. So, he engages me. And let's face it...though I abhore the death of the living tree and would have continued to buy one that could, after the season, be transplanted, somewhere, as I did every year in California, this is his house and I love the long-standing tradition of the evergreen in our midst, during Solstice Season and beyond. The pure, clean scent, rising above the holiday odors of cooking, the after-shaves and colognes of visitors, the washed-dog wet smell of Maeve; nothing comes close to the pine tree. No matter how cold or long I've been outside shoveling snow, or shopping in frenzied malls, that first "hit" of Christmas Tree revives me. So,we begin.
This is not an easy process.
Three to four hours later, with no breaks (neither for sustenance nor for the bathroom...)we are still putting ornaments on the tree. Some date back to my dead grandparents, on both sides. Some have been made by my siblings and myself--others are newer--created in classes attended by the grandkids. There are ornaments the uncles and aunts and cousins look for, amid the scraggly branches and falling needles, every year. There is a bi-plane for Uncle Bobby; a blown-glass nurse for Ann; about ten variations of Maeve--from photos in Christmas wreaths to clay-carved likenesses; there are the "Best Grandparents" sets in triplicate; there is even a silver bell I've hung every year I've been alive and could pick out my own favorite. It is a living history of our family during holidays. (It doesn't look half bad, either.)
Until Dad hangs the LED lights.
Kev and Ann insisted he replace the aged glass and material -cord electric strands, held together with duct tape and prayers, which we have had since before we moved into this house. (I can remember the lights getting so hot that we were admonished, as kids, "not to get near the tree when it's on"--as if it suddenly became infused with Evil.) I know that part of the thrill of Christmastime was all the stories of houses going up in flames because of bursting Christmas lights and dried-out branches...So, Dad caved, but he hates the lights. They aren't bright enough for him. (I think, secretly, he also liked bragging, that in all of his years of decorating his trees, not one had burst into flames!) Now that that threat has been extinguished, it just ain't the same...sigh.
So, he makes up for them by hanging three times as many strands and plugging in four extension cords and the brightest star he can find. This year, the tree weighs as much as I do, easily.
He allows Kev to come back and put the star up--with reluctance on both sides. Kev is in a hurry and not the best mood. (Ann is upstairs with niece Mer, wrapping gifts.Mom is listening to Bing Crosby in her room.)
Dad and I are admiring our finished creation. Dad is sipping his Ensure and I'm drinking a diet Coke. All of a sudden, in deep silence and gently, the entire tree begins creeping towards us!
Down, down she leans in her glory! (As if she's bowing in recognition--not in the least angry--just moving, alive, shocking us backwards.) Then, when the plastic tree- stand, with the ten gallons of water and the four steel rods pinning the trunk down, bends--the water in a mini-tsunami all over Mom's braided rug and the extension cords (egads!)--there is a popping and a tinkling and a crash of smashed glass and tinsel and sap and needles covering everything.! Maeve careens downstairs, yelping a warning--as if she has come to us after all these years of fire danger, only to be confronted with a fainting tree--but warn us, she will!
Giving me the "sssshhhhh" sign, hoping Mom won't hear (and she didn't, deaf in one ear, the other focused on Bing Crosby's wails, behind her bedroom door), Dad pushes me into the mess of tree and ornaments.
Together, we haul it up. However, without water, the skewers can't hold; they twist out of the bark. By now, Dad, who is a spindly little man in his dotage, can't hold,either. I am at a right angle, my glasses below my nostrils, keeping the tree and its remaining lights, decorations and tinsel, from crushing my father.
Mer bolts down after the dog. Ann yells behind her. I hollar, "Call your father to get back here, now!"
Kev finally arrives and helps us re-right the tree.
It goes down again, causing as much damage as the first time. Ann has a laundry basket and additional cursing, picking up shards of our grannies' ornaments out of the braided rug, and trying to keep Maeve from dancing on them--or worse, getting an ornament "hook" in a paw. Mer doesn't know if she should cry or laugh. (We send her up to keep Mom busy, and from coming down to see what is going on.)
All together, we wrangle the tree, again. This time, Dad's had it.
"I should have wired it to the wall, like last year! I told you!" He heads to his workroom. He emerges with piano wire, clippers, pliers, hammer and eyebolts. He finds the holes he made in the woodwork, behind the lace curtains Bev lovingly hangs each year, and puts eyebolts into the windowsills. Now, with wiring worthy of the San Francisco Bay Bridge, the tree is upright and majestic, if a bit denuded. Dad is more than satisfied.
He picks tinsel off the dog. Himself. Me.
He straightens the silver strands out and begins to rehang them, piece by piece.
Ann hides the broken ornaments.
Kev Krazy Glue's the Christmas star and reboots it, back on top.
When Mom finally comes down, she notices Maeve won't sit anywhere near the tree--even to get to her bone. Bev is suspicious, b ut Maeve keeps our secret--just dreaming with one blood-shot eye on the tree
at all times.
"Well, at least those new lights won't burn us to death in our sleep..." Mom sighs. "It is a nice tree, all in all."
I pick a pine needle from my teeth and breathe in.
Dad merely smiles.
For the second Christmas in a row, Dad has gently elicited my help in trimming and watering "a real tree". Kev and he go out to the same local civic organization lot; haggle; pick out the tallest tree there; haggle; tie it to one of several vehicles; haggle; lop of the top three feet--usually leaving a piece of trunk the size of a tangerine, which then needs "whittling down" to fix the star at the top. Then, still haggling, they get it smushed into the living-room, jammed in a tree stand that screws in four pieces of metal and sets the wet tree in a pot of water. Covered in pitch and sweat, Kev grabs a beer and exits, cussing under his breath. Headed home to his own smells of warming plastic and no fallen branches.
Then, Dad goes into his secret workroom in the cellar.There, he uncovers myriad hoards of boxes, which he has been collecting through the decades--and protecting from filching by his children, his grandchildren and his spouse. He is an organized collector, though. Each box is lovingly marked with dates and contents. Each ornament--whether it be plastic or blown glass, is adoringly wrapped in parchment-like kleenex. Dad even saves the tinsel.
"He what?!" I asked on the phone once, years back, from California.
"He's been taking each strand of silver tinsel off the tree, before he hauls it to the curb, after Christmas. Then he uncurls each piece and puts it in a special box..." Kev informs me.
I thought he was exaggerating--still a bit sore from the tree installation at 88 Maple, each year.
No hyperbole. Dad carefully unwraps the tinsel and proceeds to lay it on the couch. Then, while Mom and everyone else (our house has an unremitting stream of relatives and visitors--all the more intense, this year, as Dad lost his bid for the city council and people are still coming by to wish him adieu.) are out shopping, Dad begins, in the silence of a little boy with his fingers inching towards the forbidden cookie jar, to decorate the tree. And because, as the "squatter" and "returned Cartoon-from-California-artist", I am his "go-to" accomplice.
"They laugh because I saved the tinsel, but you know, the factory that makes this stuff closed down. You can't get it anymore!" Dad points out, as he uncurls a static-clinging strand from his thumb.
Dad has no sense of design. He's an amazing workman and can jerryrig anything from nothing--but his artistic touch is sadly lacking. He's the first to admit it, too. So, he engages me. And let's face it...though I abhore the death of the living tree and would have continued to buy one that could, after the season, be transplanted, somewhere, as I did every year in California, this is his house and I love the long-standing tradition of the evergreen in our midst, during Solstice Season and beyond. The pure, clean scent, rising above the holiday odors of cooking, the after-shaves and colognes of visitors, the washed-dog wet smell of Maeve; nothing comes close to the pine tree. No matter how cold or long I've been outside shoveling snow, or shopping in frenzied malls, that first "hit" of Christmas Tree revives me. So,we begin.
This is not an easy process.
Three to four hours later, with no breaks (neither for sustenance nor for the bathroom...)we are still putting ornaments on the tree. Some date back to my dead grandparents, on both sides. Some have been made by my siblings and myself--others are newer--created in classes attended by the grandkids. There are ornaments the uncles and aunts and cousins look for, amid the scraggly branches and falling needles, every year. There is a bi-plane for Uncle Bobby; a blown-glass nurse for Ann; about ten variations of Maeve--from photos in Christmas wreaths to clay-carved likenesses; there are the "Best Grandparents" sets in triplicate; there is even a silver bell I've hung every year I've been alive and could pick out my own favorite. It is a living history of our family during holidays. (It doesn't look half bad, either.)
Until Dad hangs the LED lights.
Kev and Ann insisted he replace the aged glass and material -cord electric strands, held together with duct tape and prayers, which we have had since before we moved into this house. (I can remember the lights getting so hot that we were admonished, as kids, "not to get near the tree when it's on"--as if it suddenly became infused with Evil.) I know that part of the thrill of Christmastime was all the stories of houses going up in flames because of bursting Christmas lights and dried-out branches...So, Dad caved, but he hates the lights. They aren't bright enough for him. (I think, secretly, he also liked bragging, that in all of his years of decorating his trees, not one had burst into flames!) Now that that threat has been extinguished, it just ain't the same...sigh.
So, he makes up for them by hanging three times as many strands and plugging in four extension cords and the brightest star he can find. This year, the tree weighs as much as I do, easily.
He allows Kev to come back and put the star up--with reluctance on both sides. Kev is in a hurry and not the best mood. (Ann is upstairs with niece Mer, wrapping gifts.Mom is listening to Bing Crosby in her room.)
Dad and I are admiring our finished creation. Dad is sipping his Ensure and I'm drinking a diet Coke. All of a sudden, in deep silence and gently, the entire tree begins creeping towards us!
Down, down she leans in her glory! (As if she's bowing in recognition--not in the least angry--just moving, alive, shocking us backwards.) Then, when the plastic tree- stand, with the ten gallons of water and the four steel rods pinning the trunk down, bends--the water in a mini-tsunami all over Mom's braided rug and the extension cords (egads!)--there is a popping and a tinkling and a crash of smashed glass and tinsel and sap and needles covering everything.! Maeve careens downstairs, yelping a warning--as if she has come to us after all these years of fire danger, only to be confronted with a fainting tree--but warn us, she will!
Giving me the "sssshhhhh" sign, hoping Mom won't hear (and she didn't, deaf in one ear, the other focused on Bing Crosby's wails, behind her bedroom door), Dad pushes me into the mess of tree and ornaments.
Together, we haul it up. However, without water, the skewers can't hold; they twist out of the bark. By now, Dad, who is a spindly little man in his dotage, can't hold,either. I am at a right angle, my glasses below my nostrils, keeping the tree and its remaining lights, decorations and tinsel, from crushing my father.
Mer bolts down after the dog. Ann yells behind her. I hollar, "Call your father to get back here, now!"
Kev finally arrives and helps us re-right the tree.
It goes down again, causing as much damage as the first time. Ann has a laundry basket and additional cursing, picking up shards of our grannies' ornaments out of the braided rug, and trying to keep Maeve from dancing on them--or worse, getting an ornament "hook" in a paw. Mer doesn't know if she should cry or laugh. (We send her up to keep Mom busy, and from coming down to see what is going on.)
All together, we wrangle the tree, again. This time, Dad's had it.
"I should have wired it to the wall, like last year! I told you!" He heads to his workroom. He emerges with piano wire, clippers, pliers, hammer and eyebolts. He finds the holes he made in the woodwork, behind the lace curtains Bev lovingly hangs each year, and puts eyebolts into the windowsills. Now, with wiring worthy of the San Francisco Bay Bridge, the tree is upright and majestic, if a bit denuded. Dad is more than satisfied.
He picks tinsel off the dog. Himself. Me.
He straightens the silver strands out and begins to rehang them, piece by piece.
Ann hides the broken ornaments.
Kev Krazy Glue's the Christmas star and reboots it, back on top.
When Mom finally comes down, she notices Maeve won't sit anywhere near the tree--even to get to her bone. Bev is suspicious, b ut Maeve keeps our secret--just dreaming with one blood-shot eye on the tree
at all times.
"Well, at least those new lights won't burn us to death in our sleep..." Mom sighs. "It is a nice tree, all in all."
I pick a pine needle from my teeth and breathe in.
Dad merely smiles.
