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Illustration by Jerry
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I wrestled a Christmas tree and lived to tell about it
By Paul Willcott
Things were really looking up. Ann and I had
lived so many years in Texas, that between us we’d endured
somewhere around a hundred Christmases when it was as much as 60
degrees too warm to snow. Not anymore. It was a foot deep outside
the house, and it was still coming down. Cold too. Around zero every
night.
We’d seldom had a fireplace, either, and “the stockings
were hung from the doorjamb with care” had never quite satisfied.
Our home in Saranac Lake, where we’re seasonal residents,
has not one but four fireplaces.
And at last we had a living room that would accommodate a truly
BIG Christmas tree. The first time I looked at that room, I saw
myself on a high step ladder, wearing a cardigan and a bow tie,
putting the star atop a BIG tree while children, relatives, and
villagers looked on with eyes all aglow—the aroma of cookies
wafting in from the kitchen, and Bing Crosby crooning “Adeste
Fideles” softly in the background.
At the tree farm outside town, Ann’s eye fell on an Adirondack
beauty about the size of a Sequoia, with limbs remarkably dense
and thick. It took two strong men to move it to the trussing machine.
Branches snapped and the air was full of mechanical whining. The
men grunted, and under their breaths they softly swore oaths inappropriate
to the season. At last the thing emerged netted with many, many
rounds of twine but hardly defeated and looking like it could burst
its bounds at any minute.
After the guys got it up onto the top of our Suburban, I took the
several miles on Route 86 at 20 miles an hour, telling myself that
the cars behind were queued up to see the magnificent thing home
with proper ceremony. Once we got home and I reached up to heave
it off the car, I realized how heavy it was. Most of that snow that
had sat prettily on the magnificent outstretched branches while
the tree was on the lot, had been bound up inside. When a tree has
a girth like that one did, it can hold a lot of heavy snow.
I got its trunk over the edge of the rack, and when critical mass
was reached, the thing came down easily—right on top of me—and
had its way with my wrist. Lying in the snow, I pulled my glove
down a little and sneaked a look at the wound. It wasn’t as
serious as it felt. As soon as I emptied the pooled blood out of
the glove and got a Boy Scout tourniquet going, it’d be O.K.
I had a plan. So I wouldn’t have to pick it up, I would slide
the thing across the porch and through the big front door. Halfway
there, I looked back on a trail of needles, globs of dirty snow,
and an angry chlorophyll smear. It probably wasn’t a good
idea to drag it into the house and across the newly refinished floors,
brushing as I went the hideously expensive new wallpaper that Ann
had given such care to selecting.
Better to leave it out on the porch and melt the snow on the thing
with a hair dryer. You may not know this about hair dryers. I didn’t.
They blow warm air—not hot—and they do it in a broad,
diffuse pattern—not the bullet of heat that I needed.
It came to me after an hour or so that it would be better to take
the tree through the side door into the mudroom, which has a slate
floor. There it would remain until the next day. Overnight the snow
would melt, the thing would become lighter, I’d be able to
move it easily, and I wouldn’t drip melting snow all over
the house.
I dragged it up the driveway a few inches at a time, leaving drops
of blood on the needle-strewn snow, making a festive green and red
pattern. Start to finish, it took only two hours and six minutes
to get it from front porch to inside the mudroom. As I caught my
breath, I turned the radiators up as high as they would go and retired
to administer first aid. That night I checked to see if the snow
was melting properly. It seemed to be; water was gathering on the
floor beside the mats that were supposed to be absorbing it.
Next morning, I put on aggression along with my long underwear and
gathered up tools. First, I would reduce the circumference of the
trunk so that it would fit into the antique cast iron stand that
was a family treasure. Shouldn’t take long. I wrestled the
thing back outside, thinking I would hold it up with one hand and
chop away at the base with my other. I’m usually more intelligent
than that. Then I tried leaning it against the house, but it kept
sliding down.
Just as full-body frostbite began to set in, I succeeded in whittling
down the tree’s base. I drilled a fat deep hole for the spike
and dragged the thing back up the steps and into the mudroom. Ann
entered with a sheet, we rolled the tree onto it, and away we went,
bound for the living room. Nothing to it.
We put a plastic drop cloth where the stand would rest, and I got
my legs under me and heaved the thing up and into the place, where
it would reside in splendor through the 12 days of Christmas. If
it had been a single ounce heavier, I could not have done it. But
there it stood, straight and promising. All that remained before
putting on the ornaments was to cut the heavy twine that kept it
from expanding to its full majestic girth.
Starting at the top, we cut, and branches popped out as happy as
kids on the last day of school. Then, about halfway down, all intact
strings gave way at once in a combination of explosion and unraveling,
and every remaining branch sprang open angrily, spraying snow and
ice wall to wall, floor to ceiling. The thing had been no more willing
to thaw than a Christmas turkey; its innards had been so jammed
up with snow and ice. In no time at all, puddles of ugly water began
forming all over the room.
Ann ran for towels, and I, not being very smart, stood the thing
up again. Because the treasured stand was too small, the tree fell
over again, crashing into a newly painted wall. The stand kicked
up into the air and came back down with force, bouncing its sharp
edge and its 25 or so pounds off my ankle. Visions of sugarplums
gave place to visions of a Christmas purple heart.
As Ann swept wet, sticky needles into piles and I sucked them up
with a shop vac, we discussed various solutions and—well—we
bickered. I thought we should take the thing out onto the front
porch and leave it there until the following weekend when we would
return from New York City. Ann was determined—as in clenched
jaw—that the sun porch was the proper place. We only argue
over important matters, especially at Christmas.
I prevailed. Then, as we continued cleaning, Ann came up with a
bright shiny Christmas vision.
“Let’s leave it out on the porch for the whole season.
We could hoist it up and attach it to the porch swing eyebolt with
a wire. Put outdoor lights on it. And then get a more manageable
tree for inside.”
“Great idea,” I said. Actually, it’d been my plan
all along. On the drive back to the city, Ann decided she’d
been rash.
“That’s such a fine fat tree, let’s keep it inside.”
“Fine with me,” I said. Actually, that had been my plan
all along.
“We’ll just buy an extra-large stand,” she said
with finality.
During the week, we found one that attaches to a 4-foot-square piece
of plywood, and features a three-gallon reservoir.
Now I will tell you a Christmas miracle. Just at dusk with snow
falling dreamily and angels singing to beat the band, we stood with
our backs to the fireplace and admired the BIG Christmas tree we
had always wanted. It was beautiful. We felt blessed and content
and most of all—this is the Christmas miracle—most of
all, we felt free—free not to have to put up a BIG Christmas
ever again.
This was adapted from a North Country Public Radio commentary.
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