Chapter Twenty-Five: Christmas

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     Like many fathers, mine had a love-hate relationship with Christmas. Dad loved the family gatherings (his side – not my mother’s), the Christmas cookies (those my mother made after we kids went to sleep), and the bright lights that decorated virtually every house on our middle-class suburban street.

 

     Dad loved the other lights, mind you, never our own. A stickler for tradition, my father brought our lights down from the attic like clockwork the day after Thanksgiving. From his base of operations in our dining room, my father would remove fifteen to twenty light strands from their single large box - a task made less difficult since the lights inevitably stuck together like some giant, sticky ball of yarn. After hours spent separating the mess, Dad would test each strand, cursing the dead ones as if traitors to some noble cause.

 

     Other children developed their repertoire of expletives from the schoolyard. Every curse I learned originated with my father during his yearly battle to separate those wayward strings of lights 

 

     My mother, sister, and I learned never to bother my father on that day. My mother once tried to persuade Dad to purchase new light strings every year, a solution my father stubbornly refused. To Dad, this battle was part of Christmas, no less important than the presents, the Charlie Brown Christmas Special, or visiting Santa at the mall. My dad would fight his war, and he would win it. The rest of us learned just to let him go.

 

     I couldn’t help reflecting on my father’s Christmas travails as I hauled down my own lights after Thanksgiving. Having experienced my own congealed light phenomenon in previous years, I approached this year’s unveiling with excitement. Last December twenty-sixth, I took advantage of the post-Christmas sales and purchased empty boxes, lots and lots of empty boxes. When I arrived home, my wife thought I had lost my mind.

 

     “Please tell me you’re not trying to fool the kids again with empty present boxes.”

 

     “I admit that was a bad idea. This is something different.”

 

     As I took down the lights post-New Year’s, I placed each strand in a separate box – thirteen strands in thirteen different boxes. Faced with clear evidence of my genius, my wife still thought I was nuts.

 

     “We have two thousand boxes in our attic, most of which contain decorations for various holidays we can never find when they’re needed. Now you’re adding another thirteen to the mix. Where are you going to store them?”

 

     “It’s either this or buying new strands of lights every year. The boxes seemed more financially sound. Regarding storage, I have a plan.”

 

     Alma did have a point about our two thousand boxes. Acknowledging that, I stuffed my thirteen light containers in an already crowded corner next to two boxes labeled “Arbor Day,” two cartons that, for whatever reason, never disappeared like the others. I vaguely remembered Alma saying an Arbor Day celebration might serve as an educational tool for our children - the same environmentally aware kids who once took turns stomping on a loose sock because they thought it was a centipede. In any case, I hoped some of that Arbor Day magic might rub off on my Christmas light collection.

 

     I placed the lightboxes in their designated spot, even taking a picture with my cellphone. This year, my post-Thanksgiving trek up to our attic was made with the optimism of a child, a mood that lasted until I reached my destination.

 

     In a voice I hoped did not reflect my panic, I called, “Alma, where are my lights?”

 

     Alma marched up the steps to help me. After a half-hour of fruitless searching, she said, “I don’t have a clue. Are you sure you remember where you put them?”

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     Like a lunatic hanging on to his last thread of sanity, I pointed to the picture on my phone, the one I took the previous year to forestall precisely this problem.

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     “See!  They were right in that corner. I swear to God, they were right there.”   

I could see from Alma’s stare I was coming dangerously close to babbling. Speaking slowly, as if to a child, she said,

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     “Unless they’re somewhere under the floor, we’re just going to have to go through this mess as best we can.”

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     Did we have loose floorboards?  Probably not – those only came into play in spy movies and TV thrillers. Looking at my now-useless iPhone photo, I considered asking Siri. While she knew much, I suspected this situation might be beyond even her.

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     With no other choice, Alma and I went through all the miscellaneous boxes in our attic. After finding items we thought long ago discarded, we also managed to dig up eight boxes of lights between us. While not thirteen, I would take what I could get.  

 

     The eight strands were reduced to six after testing, the lights on the other two blinking once before growing completely dark. Now seeking seven new light strings, I traveled to the place where real men go to buy lights, beef jerky, and pretty much anything else that made life worth living – I drove to our local hardware store. Once there, I made my way through a Christmas aisle filled with at least ten men, all bemoaning the unfairness of a God who refused to make Christmas lights with more than a one-year lifespan.

 

     Back home, I proceeded to hang the lights in my front yard, four strands on the porch, with the other nine hanging from the various bushes that adorned our front yard. Two of those bushes had needles equal in size and considerably sharper than the unicorn horn on Emily’s Halloween costume.

 

     I didn’t care. Growing more obstinate as the temperature dived, there was no way I would allow intense, unrelenting pain to interfere with my light display. Finishing at nine that evening, I forced Alma to wake the kids for the grand unveiling.

 

     The final product was indeed glorious and cheered by Alma, Emily, and Jack. Reflecting back, I wasn’t sure if my family truly appreciated the display or simply hoped to lure their lunatic father back inside the house. They pointedly ignored the three lights that weren’t working, so the latter was quite possible.

 

     That night, I couldn’t have cared less. Like a long line of men in houses across the country, I had once again successfully hung my Christmas lights. My dad wouldn’t see the end result until the big day itself, but I knew he would be proud.

 

     The lights were a success, but there was much more to the Christmas season than little twinkly bulbs. Not wishing to lose momentum, Alma and I immediately moved to the holiday’s next phase - Santa wish lists.

 

     Other than the customary picture with Santa - a tradition Jack once derailed with an unfortunately timed bowel movement - Alma and I had resolved to ignore the malls and accomplish most of our Christmas shopping online.

 

     Avoiding the in-person frenzy was only part of our rationale. We had discovered early on that Jack, my gregarious child, viewed stores as an opportunity to meet and greet any other mall visitors we passed along the way. Approaching total strangers with questions about anything that intrigued him, my son had an empathetic streak that charmed even the grumpiest of shoppers.       

 

     While we found Jack’s concern for others heartening, Alma and I had no wish to see our son’s picture on a milk carton. We briefly considered a harness, but we decided to avoid a referral to Child Protective Services and stick with discretion as the better part of valor. Our retreat from the malls aside, however, Christmas lists were still a necessity.

 

     Hoping to stay on top of things, we sat down with the kids shortly after Thanksgiving. For my parents, this process was much easier. On the day it arrived, my mother and father threw the Toys “R”  Us catalog in front of my sister and me and stood at a safe distance while we chose the first fifty or sixty items that caught our attention. Once our commercial frenzy had subsided, our parents would grab our lists, peruse them with the utmost care, and purchase the first few items they found on sale. The rest of our gifts would be clothing - items that would, until my teen years, be met with all the disinterest for which children are notorious.

 

     The Toys “R” Us catalog no longer an option, Emily and Jack relied on TV commercials along with input from their friends, neither of which proved immensely helpful. Holiday commercials now arriving in October, Jack would inevitably spot something he liked early, putting faith in his three-year-old memory when the time came to compile his list.

 

     “I want that truck, the one with the hose on it.”

 

     “What truck with a hose would we be talking about, big guy?”

 

     “It’s green.”

 

     “The truck is green or the hose?”

 

     Jack patiently waited for me to catch up. I was his father. The fact I didn’t have a clue would not occur to him until his teen years.

 

     Finally, the light dawned. My son was color-blind. Put that together with the hose, and there was only one possible answer.

 

     “You want another firetruck.”

 

     “A Malley Toys firetruck.”

 

     Now we were getting somewhere, but I still had questions. “You already have a firetruck sitting in your room. Why do you want a second one?”

 

     “You fill it up, and the Malley truck shoots water out of the firehose. I need that.”

 

     There were so many things wrong with that scenario I couldn’t even begin to name them all. I mentally put a large “x” across the Malley Firetruck.

 

     I sat with Jack for two hours, asking an average of fifty-seven questions per item before we came up with ten not requiring the addition of flood insurance to our homeowner’s policy.

 

     While I sat with Jack, Alma took on Emily, our more organized child. The ladies were finished in fifteen minutes. Catching me later, Alma said, “I’m surprised she didn’t have everything typed, alphabetized, and sorted by size. If we let her use the computer, she probably would have.”

 

     “How about you let me take Emily next year.”

 

     “Jack likes telling you his stuff. You’re a guy – he figures you understand him better.”

 

     “Then don’t blame me when the nuclear reactor arrives.”

 

     “I don’t care what he plays with, as long as he has adult supervision.”

 

     The kid’s lists were complete, and we ordered what we could online. Like all parents, we made sure to add the usual assortment of shirts, pants, etc., to replace whatever clothing items had become outgrown the previous year. Like most kids, ours viewed the latter as soul-crushing Christmas disappointments, the equivalent of coming to the supper table hungry and discovering spinach as the main course. As a child, I always figured my parents gave me clothing for revenge. You got me up last week at three in the morning?  No problem – have some socks for Christmas.

 

     Most parents assuage their conscience when these gifts are opened by telling themselves these “practical” items are still needed. The fact that they were also amusing was merely a side benefit.

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     With the lists completed, our final step was the tree. On our very first Christmas, I successfully lobbied Alma for a real Christmas tree. Alma’s mother and father, a family who could make the  Lannisters from Game of Thrones look sentimental, always insisted on an artificial tree, a silver monstrosity with blue ornaments that Alma admitted had given her nightmares. Eager to start her own tradition, Alma consented to a real tree quite happily. If she had known what she was in for, she might have reconsidered.

 

     Our first tree was a harbinger of Christmas trees to come. Color-wise it was off-green, perhaps an undiscovered shade of aqua. We never were able to identify its species or if it was even, technically, a tree. The trunk started straight and then moved upward in a type of “S” curve, which was not a deal-breaker since it ended in approximately the same direction as it began.

 

     The trunk’s thickness also became less and less imposing as it progressed upward, starting at solid six inches and finishing at maybe one or two. The lot owner offered a discount, anxious to get back inside and return to whatever alcoholic beverage he had spilled over his tattered winter coat.

 

     Alma and I looked at each other. This was our Charlie Brown tree, though as the last tree on the lot, we would have likely said yes no matter its comic allegiance. Thus determined, we took the leap – we bought our first Christmas tree.

 

     When it came time for decorating, we found the branches were far stronger at the top. Protruding like spikes from an iron maiden, our tree’s upper branches could have supported five-pound weights with no problem whatsoever.

 

     As you moved lower, our tree’s branch strength declined significantly. The lowest branches sagged even as we walked through the room. None of our ornaments would hang from those limbs, and lights were also out of the question as they fell off no matter how carefully they were placed.  

 

     Alma and I still had a successful first Christmas, opening presents beneath the ornaments on its upper branches while being careful to avoid impalement. We promised we would choose our next tree much earlier the following year, confident that widening our choices would allow us to pick an evergreen gem.

 

     Unfortunately, we were wrong. Numerous problems plagued our later trees, including but not limited to tree rot, bug infestations, and, in one notable case, a wayward squirrel who somehow remained dormant until we returned to our home. Knowing my feelings in the matter, Alma still raised the prospect of purchasing an artificial tree.

 

     While I understood her concern, I remained adamant. This would be the year we finally got things right. Our tree would stand straight and true, with branches able to hold both lights and our many ornaments. We got the kids ready and set out once again for Hal’s Tree Farm.

 

     I never quite figured out what Hal did on his tree lot during the non-holiday part of the year. Most other tree lots served as garden centers during the spring and summer, customers searching for mulch, pachysandra, or whatever else they imagined would generate the perfect landscape.  

 

     Other than dead trees, the only plants I saw In Hal’s lot after Christmas were the weeds growing between the cracks in his buckled cement parking lot. Hal’s was the only tree lot near our neighborhood, however. Given our Christmas tree history, there was no way I would risk driving one home for more than a mile.

 

     Once we arrived at Hal’s, I engaged in my usual Hal’s Tree Lot conversation.

 

     “You know, Hal, they say Frasier Firs are the best kind of trees. Do you have any Frasier Firs?”

 

     “I sell trees - they’re green. If you want something fancy, go someplace else.”

 

     “Sounds good, Hal. Can I get any help tying it to our hood?”

 

     “No.”

 

     He then uttered something relatively close to a growl. Unsure of what that meant and unwilling to find out, Alma, the kids, and I quickly picked out a tree. It was, as Hal promised, green. As to its parentage, I’m not sure an arborist could have made that call.

 

     Once home, we took this year’s version of the tree from hell and placed it in our stand to let the branches settle. I never really knew what settling was, but my father told me it was important for a Christmas tree. My lack of understanding aside, Dad’s advice seemed to make sense. Coming into a new house, I figured settling might be the key to transforming our tree into something barely recognizable.

 

     Unfortunately, this year’s tree did not settle unless settling was a synonym for falling. Set loose in its stand, our new tree took advantage of its freedom and began to topple, almost taking out Homer in the process.

 

     After accounting for our dog and both of our children, Alma and I re-secured our wooden nightmare with the aid of some spare electrical wire wound around the tree’s upper third. We attached the wire to the wall with tape Alma prayed wouldn’t leave marks on the wallpaper.

 

     “Usually,” Alma said afterward, “our trees wait until we put on the ornaments before they crap out.”

 

     “True – though you noticed the kids didn’t even blink.”

 

     “Just pray we can detach it from the wall, or we’ll have a new permanent piece of furniture in our living room.”

 

     Unlike Alma, I wasn’t worried about the detachment issue. If our present model was like most of Hal’s trees, its disintegration date would arrive roughly twenty seconds past midnight on the day after Christmas. Once that happened, we would be left with nothing but an empty tree stand surrounded by conjoined strands of lights resting limply on our floor.

 

     With presents purchased and a Christmas tree in our living room, we were now prepared for the big day itself. We packed our hyperactive children off to bed on Christmas Eve, promising Santa wouldn’t arrive until their heads hit their pillows.

 

     In search of a loophole, Jack ran upstairs, slammed his head against his pillow, and immediately ran back down to check under the tree. Finding nothing there, he looked at me like I had somehow let him down.

 

     Walking Jack back upstairs, I said, “Don’t blame me, kid. This is Santa’s show from here on in.”

 

     Alma and I waited an hour after the kids fell asleep before we dared bring down the gifts. Fearing another treefall disaster, we set the presents several feet away from the tree itself.

 

     Surveying the finished product, Alma said, “This doesn’t look too bad. Do we dare turn on the lights?”

 

     We turned on the lights. Gazing at our imperfect tree, deceptively non-threatening behind the glow of three hundred multi-colored lights, I looked at my beautiful wife and noticed the tear in her eye. She had been so willing over the years to put up with my Christmas peccadillos – I needed to be more understanding with some of hers.

 

     “If you really want an artificial tree,” I told her, “I’m okay with getting one next year.”

 

     Alma looked at me and slid her arm around my waist. I realized then I misunderstood.

 

     “We are never, ever getting an artificial tree. I don’t care if we’re eighty years old and have to pay someone to drag it in for us. These are the kind of crazy Christmases my childhood friends always talked about. Imagine the stories we’ll tell, especially you.”

 

     “As long as neither of our kids gets injured.”

 

     “Relax. Remember what you always say – nothing bad can ever happen at Christmas.”

 

     The following day I watched as the kids tore into their presents. Remembering Alma’s reassurance, I realized I was, for once, one hundred percent correct.