- The Tree, the Wonderful Tree
Few things at Christmas inspired the old man to heights of self-imposed torture than the Christmas tree.
There were normal disasters, of course: the blown fuse because of too many lights, the dog lifting his leg on the tree, the brand new star for the top that was too heavy to stay up, the manger scene underneath that lost key figures. Once the law was ‘decorate only in red balls and white lights’. That didn’t make Good Homes and Gardens; my mother bit her lip for 3 weeks.
Two of his best plans stand out: the rotating light and the flocking.
The rotating light was a machine on the floor that took a heavy-duty bulb, and, in front of the bulb, a wheel rotated that had red, green, and blue shades. The wheel spun, bathing the tree and ¾ of the room in color. This contraption, of course, creaked and whirred, which is perfect for Christmas. (yes, but that means we need to play Fred Waring loud to cover the noise. Pass the razor blades, please) Other than the motor’s heat, this wasn’t the worst idea unless we had to get close to the tree to change a bulb. Presents had to be moved to ensure they didn’t burn. Once the dog let out a scream, so he learned that the machine was evil.
This lasted two years. The third year, the motor gave out. Well, no problem, right? You just move the wheel manually and you can still have the glory of a room awash in green. I was watching TV with the old man, and I notice behind me the room has changed hues from red to white. The old man is off the couch so fast the bathroom must be calling. Nope, vile curses always reserved for non-functioning machines or Maurice Chevalier fill the air. The color shade had finally succumbed to the heat of the bulb and melted into goo on the carpet. The machine was sadly laid to rest in the trash can and my mother was summoned to fix the carpet so the old man return to his regularly-scheduled programming.
The other tree disaster was Flocking. Someone talked the old man into buying this white crap that you sprayed on the tree to make it look like it was covered with snow. You had to buy a gallon of the stuff at a time. And buy a sprayer. The old man was absolutely enthralled, he’d seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
In a rare moment of common sense, he thought it might be better if this process was done outside the house, but not on the grass, cause the dog might eat the stuff.
It took forever to stir the stuff, it was like hard molasses and the cold air didn’t help. Stir the stuff, kid, and tell me when it’s ready. Ok…………….yes, I’d like one ticket to hell, please.
Then we start. My God, you cannot conceive of what a study in escalating chaos this became. The sprayer jammed. The stuff came out ok, then in lumps, then it stopped. White goo everywhere—our pants, the porch, the side of the house. The tree has to be turned, cause the stuff is only on one side. More goo heaped on us. Some crap falls off, some is piles up, like little white heaps on a sand castle. The finished tree looks like some unearthly plague of white frozen vomit from Hades. There’s still stuff left it the bottom of the can, so we can’t let that go to waste—paid good money for this. Get a paintbrush and see if we can slop more abuse on this tree. Uh-oh, the brush is ruined. He damns it to hell for eternity.
My mother was summoned to clean outside. I can imagine her reaction to that 5 word command. My pants were salvaged, but his had to go in the trash.
The unfortunate result was that, although the tree resembled a Pollock done by a chimp, from the outside sidewalk, it didn’t look bad. Of course, inside the house, it is an absolute mess. The hard goo falls off randomly. Any time the tree is touched to fix a light or ball, needles and hard gook descended in a small wave. Bare spots began to show, as branches were stripped of gook and needles. But that’s missing the true meaning of Christmas, right?
Hmmmm……the flocked tree doesn’t smell good. Gotta go out a get a big can of pine air freshener. The can stays in the living room near the old man, so that he can share the smell of Christmas whenever he wants to! The pine smog is so pervasive I smell it in my room.
The fact that the tree didn’t look bad from the street meant we could try this again the next year and this time, we’ll do better. Can you see where this is going?
We are back on the porch and this time it’s worse. The sprayer barely works. The flocking goo always comes out in lumps of spew. The sprayer has to be cleaned twice in buckets of steaming hot water. He is trying to make this work by sheer force of will. When we stop, the tree is half covered in goo and the other half is shedding needles. The porch once again resembles a tsunami of whitewash has hit. He just can’t bring himself to clean the sprayer again when he knows what the results would be. Now he’s in a corner. He’s wild with anger, but can’t blame this on the kid; the whole thing was his idea. Time for a Hail Mary—he gets my mother and tries to convince her to not put the tree in the window this year. We’ll hide it in the corner and re-arrange furniture. After all, hardly anyone comes to the house to visit. My mother comes out and can’t contain her laughter. She thinks he’s kidding. Unwilling to abide the sight of this pathetic mess, she convinces Scrooge to buy another tree, reassuring him the cost will not make us re-mortgage our home. Score one (a rare one) for mom. The flocking materials go in the trash and the ruined tree sits at the back of the house until after Christmas when the trash man collects trees. Awash in shame, the old man bags the disfigured tree and puts it at the curb. The flocking is never discussed or mentioned again.