O CHRISTMAS TREE, O CHRISTMAS TREE

THIS BLOWS

Back in 2017, Dan talked Linda out of their solid green, unlit tree – which she loved — in favor of a “flocked”, “pre-lit” tree. “Flocked” because he wanted a snowy appearance. “Pre-lit” because he was tired (as was Linda) of buying strands of lights that only lasted a couple of years (maybe).

Not to mention his and Linda’s 30-yr propensity to aggravate each other while stringing the tree with lights. (What is with that process that makes it so annoying?) It probably says something when your kids pour eggnog, perch Indian style on the floor, and nudge each other with elbows, saying “This is going to be good.”, or “Here we go!” And swear “It’s tradition, for ya’ll to fuss over the lights!”

Surely, the pre-lit characteristic will hasten the tree trimming. After all, it is always done the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  Commencing with five trips to the attic, followed by dragging everything into the house, then tree assembly, lights, garland, and ornaments.

Right through the Georgia Tech/Georgia game.

Linda is barely semi-ok with buying a pre-lit tree, posing the question “And why is it any likelier that the lights on a pre-lit tree will last longer than two or three years — before they go out, rendering the entire tree absolutely worthless?” Dan’s nonanswer: “It’ll be fine.”

Linda argues more over getting a flocked tree. A major reason why she likes a solid green tree is because her favorite popcorn and frosted cranberry garland shows up so nicely on it. Eventually, though, she gives in — and Dan gets his flocked, pre-lit tree.

She should have kept arguing. When they open the box, she exclaims “It looks terrible — it’s caked on so thick I can hardly see any green!” Dan: “It’ll be fine.” Linda: “I don’t think so.” Then: “Even the lights are caked with it!” Dan: “It’ll be fine.” Linda: “I don’t think so.”

Just removing the thing from its box, it sheds so much flocking that it’s hard to believe there is any left on the tree. Unfortunately, there is still tons of it — flocking piled on flocking, piled on flocking. It is a flocking mess.

No matter how much floats out and down from the tree, the stuff just keeps coming, like a never-ending snow fall. With every step into the house, it drops more and more. Linda is like “No way! We’re taking it back outside.” Dan mutters something about swiffering the house later, but Linda is already dragging him and the tree back through the kitchen and garage.

Linda insists they set up halfway down the driveway, so flocking doesn’t float back into the garage and get tracked into the house. First, Dan sticks his arm into the assembled tree, grasps the center “trunk” and shakes the tree. Short choppy shakes, that start, stop, start, stop. Tons of flocking. Tons. A neighbor goes by on a morning walk. He eyes us. He and Dan exchange nods and “Mornings”. (And maybe a look Linda doesn’t quite catch.)

Next, at Linda’s “suggestion”, and with a “You gotta be kidding me” outta Dan, (or maybe it is a “What the hell?”), Dan takes one tree section at a time and whacks, and whacks, and whacks, each one on the grass, trying to dislodge flocking without breaking tree limbs or lights. Flocking is everywhere, and still coming.

Linda gets the broom. Beats the tree senseless while Dan spins it around like a prickly marionette. This goes on until her arms give out. They both look like they’ve been through a snow storm. A lady goes by on her morning walk. “Good mornings” are spoken — nobody acknowledging the abuse happening at 108 Lenox. Linda mentally gives her props for not slowing her pace.

Dan is ready to take the tree into the house, already. Asks if they’re “done”. Linda responds with “What else can we do?” He throws out a flat, offhand suggestion that he knows won’t go anywhere: “Well, there’s always the leaf blower.” To his surprise, her face doesn’t screw up with disgust. Instead, she looks like she is actually considering it.

Spinning around, Linda goes up the driveway and disappears into the garage. Dan hears a host of indistinguishable sounds — probably a mash of “blue air” mutterings, stomping, and indelicate rearranging of tools and odds and ends he has left lying around. Linda reappears — as if returning from safari — toting the leaf blower like a weapon, and dragging her kill: a 100’ extension cord.

She looks at Dan, still standing where she left him, near the end of the driveway. He looks like the other half of the famous Depression era painting American Gothic — the one with the farm couple standing with a pitchfork — except a reassembled tree stands in front of Dan. Still, he is the image of Stick a “fork” in me, I’m done. He also looks like he can’t quite believe his eyes.

Linda’s willingness to use this particular implement speaks to her frustration more than anything. And Dan knows it. His wife hates leaf blowers. Considers their racket a perfect way to ruin a perfect Saturday morning. But here she is, about to join that most irritating of weekend “blowhards”.

Linda aims the thing at the tree, and pulls the trigger. After a few slow circuits around the tree, she switches the leaf blower off. Her ears still clamor. She and Dan stand in a sea of white. The driveway looks like it has been through a blizzard. They are covered in flocking, from head to foot. Dan stands stoic. She asks him to shake the tree, to see if they have made any headway.

He does. And they have. But not nearly enough. Fresh “snow” hovers in the air, looking like oversized, white dust motes. No sooner has Linda reached the conclusion that It will have to do, Dan says “Can we go in now?” Linda grumbles “I guess so”, and begins a retreat with blower and cord.

A pickup truck coasts to a stop at the end of the driveway. (What is this, Grand Central Station?! Of course, their house is on a corner at a T-intersection with a fair amount of traffic.) It’s their next door neighbor. Without stopping, Linda does a half turn and throws a hand up in greeting.

Dan pauses in a one-armed tree supporting position, eight or ten feet up the driveway. The neighbor rolls down the passenger window, rests his left arm on the steering wheel, and leans over in a rubber-necking posture. Asks “What cha got goin’ on?”

As if he weren’t standing in a sea of white, Dan humors him with “Getting rid of some flocking … for the Mrs.” The neighbor manages to look suitably commiserate for a few seconds before breaking out in a grin.

Just as Linda enters the garage, she hears their neighbor’s parting response, a shouted “I’m gonna tell all the neighbors that the Gillises are flocking in their driveway”!

On that note, he drove off and Dan and Linda beat feet into the house, the garage door lowering behind them like a stage curtain.

MANY HANDS MAKE LIGHT(S) WORK

Fast forward three years: Dec 2020. Already a crappy year. The flocked, pre-lit tree stands in one corner of the living room. Two weeks into the season, three weeks to go until Christmas. Limbs fluffed, fully decorated with a slew of ornaments collected over forty years, and wrapped in popcorn-cranberry garland — though Linda has to squint to find the latter amongst all of that blamed flocking.

Dan and Linda are watching their twelfth Netflix series for the year— just like everybody else on the planet, who has been cabin-bound for the last nine fricking months. Suddenly, without so much as a flicker, the three rows of lights in the middle section of the tree, go dark. So does Linda’s mood. After nine months, THIS is what will send her over the edge. Her ire is born. And IT shines brightly.

Linda is hyper aware of light, or the lack thereof, particularly during the short days of winter months. She can spot a blown lightbulb behind her, just by the slight change of light no longer coming over her shoulder. Dan has no doubt that if a colony of fireflies lived on their property, and one lone firefly’s life blinked out, Linda would know they were one firefly short of a light source.

Dan knows where this is going. He pauses the episode, but holds out little hope that he will be pressing PLAY any time soon. Gets up. Joins Linda in front of the tree. Her hands are on her hips, and she is giving their (his?) flocked, “ever-lit” tree a death stare.

Dan pushes up a sweatshirt sleeve. Plunges an arm into the tree. Roots around — behind and under fronds — his arm between all manner of ornamentation (many made of glass). He feels his way more than looks, because the two plugs connecting the tree sections are green, and snugged up within the tree’s inner depths — the only place where there is less flocking and more green.

Dan finds the plugs. They are tightly fitted together. He and Linda begin circling the tree. Though, on another level, they are circling each other. Checking each and every bulb, that — if unlit or loose — could account for the tree’s lights-out condition. Specifically: “partially lit” for Dan, and “may as well be completely unlit” for Linda.

Final diagnosis: One strand (three rows) of lights are stone dead, and staying that way.

Treatment: Get over it. This will work better for Dan — he’ll be over it before he gets back to his chair, and never give it another thought. Linda, however, will stew every time she catches a glimpse of the tree, and then steam every time one of her offspring comes over and unthinkingly says “You know half your lights are out.”.

Prognosis: It’s going to be a long three weeks.

IT’S ALL DUNHILL FROM HERE

It is Jan 1, 2021. Linda has spent the last three weeks doggedly researching Christmas trees. Dan is not the least surprised. Linda researches everything, especially if she is in the market for “well-priced longevity”. In fact, she researched compact, mid-sized, and large SUVs for three years before settling on their 2020 vehicle purchase. It’s probably a miracle that she picked a tree in only three weeks.

Linda had not, however, researched Christmas trees before buying the so-called “Ever-lit”. That’ll learn her, dern her. And so, today, she is purchasing a new Christmas tree. She has settled on National Tree Company’s 7’ Dunhill Fir, sporting a 55” base diameter, and promising “lifelike, full-bodied branches”. Not that she’s taking the company’s word for it. 

No, she read reviews out the wazoo (on multiple sites) and determined that this tree is the one. Even though half the reviews say it is a time-consuming booger-bear to get the branches arranged to perfection. But those same reviewers say they absolutely looooove the tree once it is done. Linda thinks I can do time-consuming … no problem. (She’ll remember this later.)  

Then she breaks the news to Dan: “It is not flocked. It is not pre-lit.” Shock and awe. But he is more agreeable than Linda expected — probably because he doesn’t want to relive the past. (And, clearly, the whole light thing hasn’t worked out.)

FIR THE LOVE OF GOD

It’s the morning after Thanksgiving, 2021. New attic stairs have been recently installed, replacing the ones that were out of commission all year (the last hinged section broken off entirely). Linda’s son and his friend Brian completed the work five days earlier.

Since there was no good way to get the new Christmas tree, and its box, in the attic, it spent most of the year hanging out in the garage. Dan won’t have to worry about dragging a seven-foot tree down this year. He does climb up into the attic several times, though, coming back down with numerous boxes of ornaments and holiday décor. Stacks them all on a folding table in the garage.

Linda has decided to get a jumpstart on the tree process. Tired of competing with — and being in the way of — the GA Tech/GA game — every. single. year. — she has decided that, whenever possible, the tree will be done on the only day between Thanksgiving and game day. At the very least, she and Dan will assemble the tree, and string lights and garland.

Easy-peasy, right? Drop bottom section (labeled #1) into tree stand, drop midsection (labeled #2) into bottom section, and then lower top section (labeled #3) into the midsection. Then lower limbs and lightly fluff branches. And voila: a tree.

Not. So. Fast.

With this tree, section #1 goes into the tree stand, and then everything comes to a dead stop, assembly wise. Because now it’s time to lower the first (and only the first) of section one’s four rings of limbs — leaving the three rings above it, still in the upright position, and aimed at the ceiling.

Moving right along (get serious) — they half read the directions and pictures (Linda), and half wing it (Dan). (Isn’t this always the way?) They discover that there are eight limbs, and that each limb is actually three-in-one (oh goody, more for the money!) The two additional limbs are tucked just under the main limb, like bird wings folded in (how sweet.)

Those two offshoots must be grasped, via handy dandy hinges (read: hidden), and pulled out to forty-five-degree angles, of each side of its main limb. Dan precedes Linda around the tree, cranking out two limbs at a time, until sixteen hidden limbs are revealed. Result: twenty-four limbs, all told. Just on the bottom ring. Which is the first of twelve rings, all told.

Linda thinks Okay, now we’re getting somewhere! Not even close. Now comes the (quote) time-consuming, booger-bear part (end quote). Right? She thinks: Oh, boy, have I got my work cut out for me … and I’m probably about to lose Dan in this process. Sure enough, Dan says “Ok, the next part is all yours. You’re better at it than I am.” She sends a baleful look his way. Thinks she would prefer looking at it as him needing more practice. Problem is, Dan doesn’t do time-consuming.   

The “next part” — to which Dan refers — involves lifting, separating, and “fluffing” eleven individual branches on each limb. So, let’s see … twenty-four limbs, times eleven branches, is … 264 branches to manipulate. Only then will the first of the tree’s twelve rings be complete. And, though the tree narrows, the number of limbs stay about the same but get shorter and denser. Her eyes glaze.

Linda sits on the floor. Scoots slowly (infinitesimally) around the tree’s base. After a while, she calculates that she is only on ring 1, limb 6, offshoot 12, branch 198. Thinking about the remaining eleven tree rings, and their combined total of another 62 limbs (Dan will lower), 76 offshoots (Dan will crank out), and 1,463 branches (that are “all hers”), will lead to madness.  

After what seems like forever, they graduate to the tree’s middle section: #2. Dan drops it into place. Lowers its first of four rings of limbs. Cranks out all of its offshoots. Linda now has to stand and inch her way around the tree. Leaning forward and over, to see what she is doing, is winding up her back pain. Real-time progress (if you can call it that) is invisible to the naked eye.

In a rather mild, contemplative observation, Dan says “We’re about to have this tree up year-round, aren’t we?” (Because who, in their right mind, would ever do this a second time, much less every year … from now on?) Linda thinks You said it first. But she’s already ahead of him … imagining a closet or corner dedicated to this tree — because she doesn’t intend to do this ever again.

Linda now understands why her mother left her beautiful, new, silk Christmas tree erected in the formal living room year-round for 15yrs — decorating it for several holidays each year: Valentines, St. Patrick’s, Easter, 4^th of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Not for the grandchildren who liked seeing its varied dressings, but because she had to take such pains to arrange the silk limbs and branches.

Eventually, the tree’s top section: #3, is lowered into #2. Linda could cry with relief. And the process starts over again, beginning with its bottom ring. These rings are way smaller, and the limbs have no offshoots (small mercies) — but they still have a crap ton of branches. By now, Linda is standing on a three-step ladder, and doing back-stretching contortions.

Finally, the tree itself is done. It was time consuming. It was an absolute booger-bear. But standing back to assess its overall appearance, Linda totally gets where the tree reviewers were coming from. The tree is beautiful. Even without ornamentation. It has dense coverage. It’s the perfect shade of green. It was $150 on sale, but to them it looks like a million bucks. Dan says “You did good, dear.”

IT’S A CINCH

Linda needs an hour before she can even think about stringing lights. Dan has stretched out three package-kinked strands of 150 lights each, across their sunroom — winding them around the spaced-out legs of a large table, and the body of Linda’s treadmill. He thinks they will only need two strands, but readied three just in case. (Good thing, too.)

Dan precedes Linda around the tree. She has the trailing end of the lights, which she arranges in an over-under-over application on the limbs. The first two strands are loosely coiled around Dan’s forearm. He unravels a new loop every few feet, and soon realizes they will need the third strand.

Linda tells Dan he looks like he has a lasso. He responds rapid-fire: “I think it’s because you roped me into this.” She thinks that’s hilarious. He acts like he wasn’t trying to make her laugh.

Before they know it, the lights are done. Having fully expected — based on past experience — that they would have their “traditional” kerfuffle during the first step of tree trimming, Linda is pleasantly surprised. For the first time in 32 years, they’ve strung lights without wanting to strangle each other. The kids — none of them present to witness it — will never believe it.

With awe, and a little disbelief — Dan says “The tree looks better than a pre-lit one.” High praise indeed! But he’s right. Four hundred and fifty lights are perfect for this tree. Linda thinks maybe it makes up a little for not being flocked. Dan tells her he likes the shape. Linda teases him, saying “You mean … like … Christmas tree shaped?” He says “I don’t know … I just like the shape.”  

Next, they tackle the popcorn and cranberry garland. There’s a hiccup. The length of garland was exact for their previous, six-foot, smaller base trees. This tree is seven-foot, and has a wider base. After she removes the garland for the third time, Linda tries a completely different type of placement. It works. She’s happy. They call it a day.  

The next morning, Dan and Linda place Christmas décor all around the house. Usually, he enjoys eggnog during tree trimming endeavors, but the nearest store has run out. Linda asks Sara and Yimi to stop and look for some on their way over to watch the game with Dan. Dan’s in luck.

Linda feels burned out on the tree. Decides there won’t be any ornaments hung Saturday. Or Sunday. Or Monday. Tuesday, she hangs candy canes on the tree. Wednesday, nothing. Thursday, she looks at all the boxes of ornaments. Tells Dan the tree has been up a week, but she can’t get motivated. 

He — who, just a year earlier, wanted to hang every ornament they had on it — says “I like it just the way it is.” Linda asks him “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?” Dan tells her the tree looks so good it doesn’t need anything else. She looks closely at him — he is totally serious.

Linda suggests hanging only two dozen (of their 85) ornaments — selecting “just ones that have red, white, or green on them”. Dan says “Ok, we’re going minimalist.”

Linda thinks these are some of the most beautiful words Dan has ever said to her.

Dan thinks he likes the way Linda has pinched some of his “professor-y” vest between her fingers, leading him away from their beautiful tree. (Who needs subtle?)