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Wednesday, December 5, 2001 Tree mishaps make fun memories for Christmas 'romantic' I have to admit I am a hopeless romantic when it comes to Christmas. I grew up in a home where Christmas wasn't celebrated until around my seventh birthday. Once we got to a point where my folks decided to celebrate it, we went whole hog. I remember my great-grandmother, Mamaw Stoker, was so thrilled for me that she immediately hand-made me a stocking with my name in gold braid, and sent us some of her Christmas lights, and a plastic light up angel that you put on the top of the tree. I was in kid heaven. Needless to say, my enthusiasm for Christmas has remained high. It is a well-documented fact in our home that I am subject to listening to Christmas music in mid-July when I am suffering from the reality that it's mid-summer. When Christmas is too far away to be of any comfort, I crank up the A/C and let the strains of "Jingle Bell Rock" soothe away the summer blues. Hey, you cope your way, I'll cope mine. As soon as Thanksgiving was behind us this year, I was naturally on a mission to get our tree. The last few years we've cut one locally, but we had all ended up disappointed, and decided this year to opt for an IMPORT a Fraser Fir from somewhere where it's colder, where they get real snow. I went out scouting on the Friday after Thanksgiving, and spied my prey in front of Melear's Bar-B-Que, curtesy of the Civitan Club. We went to get the tree Friday night, when, by the way, it was raining. I refuse to be dissuaded. Once we got it home, John manhandled it inside. I think it weighed in the neighborhood of 250 pounds, soaking wet. Another opportunity for me to be glad we don't have new carpet yet. He tried to cut off the bottom inch of the trunk with a little hand saw, but the sap kept clogging up the action, and since he looked like a cat that had just crawled out of a bathtub full of water, I smiled and said, "Never mind." Unfortunately, after Chelsey and I got it completely decorated, the next day, my fears were confirmed: It wasn't drinking any water. I had to call John and ask him when he came home from work Saturday night to bring in an electric saw to do the job. Picture this. Saturday night, he comes home from working all day. He looks like a cat that had just dried off after crawling out of a full bathtub. I generously volunteer to crawl under the tree and unscrew the four prongs that hold the tree erect. Once I get some play in it, John and Chelsey attempt to lift it straight up out of the water reservoir. No such luck. It's still too tight. I return to unscrewing until I am convinced there is enough play in it. Now, with one mighty heave, out it comes like the world's largest carrot. Now that the tree is dry, but fully decorated, it's slimmed down to a nice 200 pounds. This is a nine-foot Fraser Fir we're talking about. Now it's John's turn to crawl under the tree, armed with a bat attitude and his Sawz-All. Oh goodie. It's my job to hold onto a leaning, 200 pound, vibrating tree. I have ornaments jabbing me in the eye, and branches getting way too personal, thank you. For whatever reason, this is not a quick process. At one point I heard John bark something about it "binding." That was my cue to wrestle the tree around a little bit so he could get a better angle. If this had been on video, I could be a very rich woman. Now we're back to the vibrating tree routine. Every needle that had ever thought of falling off, surrendered. Ornaments that lacked cementing to their respective branches threw in the towel and fell with little clinking sounds at my feet. You never see this scene on a Currier & Ives card, do you? But I am happy to report that the next day I discovered that the tree was drinking. Smart tree. I wish I'd have thought of that.
Vicki Hughes Fayetteville
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