Monday, December 9, 2013

Naming the tree. Is this a thing, now?

My sister named hers Claudio.  Brittany, Herself, calls hers Betty.  Dandelion Mama called hers Fakey
Fakerson, but, as the name implies, it was artificial, and therefore reappeared for years.  So, is this a thing?  Should I name my (as yet unpurchased, because I am clearly The Grinch) tree?  And what should I name it?  Joe?  Pete?  Billy?  Velma?
If there ever was a tree that should have been named, it was the one I had two years ago.  It was the end of my first real semester of school.  My son had, less than a month ago, debuted the opening act of what was to become a saga worthy of, if not the Icelanders, at least the Russians.  As a result of the stress, I also had to obtain my first academic extensions - in two classes, no less.  My divorce was about to become final, the only bright spot in an otherwise completely shit month.  We needed this tree.  I had been frantically making up work since the semester had officially ended, and now it was December 24th, the last possible day to find one, so after the evening Christmas Eve service, we went to the farm stand on the way home.  I think they had three trees left.  Maybe five.  All were small and crooked, except one, probably eight feet tall with an enormous trunk.  We took that one.  It was almost bigger than the car.
The layout of our apartment was ... not ideal.  For anything.  Unless the front door, when open, was open completely, it blocked the stairs to the second floor, where we lived.  There was only an inch of clearance between the door and the banister.  At the top was another door, which opened into a hallway so narrow the fire marshal barely approved it.  To get the tree into the living room, we'd have to do some serious defying of the laws of physics.
First, though, we had to get it through the front door.  My older son and I dragged it up the front steps and began our attempt.  I figured we could get it up and over the banister, and not have to drag it up the whole flight of stairs.  We pushed the door open, and open, and open some more.  Suddenly there was a crack, and the door sagged toward us.  Dry rot.  The door, old, solid wood, had dry-rotted from the inside, and now the screws hold the hinges had given way, having nothing to hold on to.  Fuck.  I took a deep breath, held back my tears, and shoved the door the rest of the way against the wall, vowing to deal with it later.  We dragged the tree the rest of the way up the stairs, heaving and panting, and laid it, snowy, frozen, dripping, in the living room.
Down in the entryway, I stared at the door, trying to think.  The attempt wasn't very successful.  Finally, I just wedged the door back into the doorframe, locked it, and left it to deal with the next day.
Back upstairs, we began to reduce the tree to a manageable size.  The trunk was fully eight inches across, maybe nine, frozen solid, and all I had was my trusty pruning saw, which is meant for small branches, a couple of inches in diameter.  I started sawing.  Ten minutes later, I had made maybe an inch of progress, and the carpet was strewn with soggy sawdust.  My son took a turn.  We traded again.  Finally, the giant chunk of tree trunk fell free.  We sliced some off the sides, too, to narrow the diameter, and levered it into place on the tree stand, which was promptly flattened.  There was just no way we'd ever make it fit.  Damn.  Plan B.  Or C.  Or F.  I grabbed a metal mixing bowl from the kitchen, some florist wire that I happened to have lying around, and rested the tree in the bowl, then wired it to the window latches.  Done.  Victory!  I high-fived my son, then told him, with great regret, that, since it was probably getting on ten o'clock, and I was exhausted, we'd decorate the tree in the morning.  Christmas morning.
"No problem, Mom," he said, the light of temporarily restored faith in his eyes.  "It's ok.  Santa will do it for us tonight."  I stared at him, my breath temporarily sucked from my body, scrambling all ability to form a thought.  The wha-...?  Who?  Santa?  Did I mention that my son was, at that time, nearly fifteen?  He'd discovered the benevolent lie surrounding Santa's existence years before.  Yet here he was, belief shining from his face.
"Of course he will, sweetie," I breathed.  What else was there to say?  And, indeed, Christmas morning, the tree shone forth in all its splendor, fully decorated and surrounded by wrapped gifts.  I'll tell you what, Santa owes me big time.

5 comments:

  1. I love this story so much. So much. Also, you write exactly how you talk, which I love.

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  2. Santa does owe you big time. Thank you for sharing this, I love it.

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  3. beautiful Ana. Santa owes you big big time

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  4. I love this!! What a great build up to poor Santa having to DECORATE THE WHOLE TREE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!! Now if that doesn't sum up mothering, I don't know what does.

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  5. Perfection. Perfect because we hear your voice, your tone, your exasperation and love. Perfect because as Lava said, this sums up mothering... well, perfectly.

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