OH TANNENBAUM!

Does putting up the Christmas tree at your house play like a Hallmark holiday movie? All sweetness and light with glimmers of “Miracle on 34th Street”?  

Lucky you. At our house it’s more like “Silent Night, Deadly Night, Part 2.” 

Every December, it’s Groundhog Day all over again. The sap-spewing stump always sports a big thick bump, making it impossible to wedge the damn thing into the stand. We often need to hang a wire from the crown molding and wrap it around the trunk to keep the tree upright. Doesn’t always work. “Bob, it’s tipping over again.” 

While “Silver Bells” lilts from Pandora, our marriage tension meter hits the Red Danger Zone the minute HE insists the tree “looks fine” where it is, but all I see are droopy withered branches because it’s facing the wrong side out. No joy, just oy.

Over the years, I’ve had Scotch pines that were apparently chopped down in late August because they shedded most of their needles before we put on the star. I’ve loaded a Douglas Fir atop the Honda minivan and felt it slide off the roof into a ditch less than a mile from home. 

I’ve hiked into thick Maine woods in a foot of snow and said, “Over there! That’s it! Just the size and shape I want,” only to hear Mr. Wonderful moan, “That’s 500 feet away. It’s 32 degrees. What’s wrong with this little guy?” I’ve untangled mile-long strands of white lights that twinkled happily until they went on the tree. Then, pffft. 

My point is….

We just had the happiest December evening ever when we put up our tree. It’s a $49-plus-tax special from Home Depot which came in a box with the stump already stuck in the stand and with a string of twinkling white lights all over the branches. Mr. W. spent less than five minutes putting it up.

“What?” daughter Amy hollered into the phone. “Maine has more trees than any state in the nation — why would you buy a fake tree?” 

For 161 reasons. Do the math:  he’s 83, I’m 78. We’re old. We’re tired. We’re arthritic. His back hurts. My shoulder aches. And that’s before we sip our first Nespresso of the day. 

We were lucky to buy the tree. That day at Home Depot, another couple half our age were gazing at it and smiling in agreement. “Don’t make eye contact with them,” I whispered to Mr. W. as we huddled on the other side of the tree. “Just keep staring at the tree. Okay, now, get out your wallet. Slowly. Look like you’re about to walk to the register.”  

The stalemate ended when I heard the wife say to her husband, “Oh, let the old folks have it. I’m sure there’s another one.” 

The old folk’s five-foot tree doesn’t smell like any Christmas tree I’ve ever had. In fact, it doesn’t smell like anything. But it’s loaded with my favorite ornaments and lobster lights. From a distance, if you squint, you’d swear it was real and never guess it “grew up” in Cambodia.  To the manufacturer, I say, “Rikreay​ thngai​ bony​ nauel,” which I’m sure you know is “Merry Christmas” in Khmer.