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When I was a kid, my family didn't just get some half-dead tree from one of the abundant pre-cut lots in town. No, that wasn't good enough. We took our Christmas seriously and we weren't satisfied with cheap imports. Instead, Mom, Dad, Li'l Sis, and I piled into the pickup truck and drove out into the country to a large tree farm that let you search for and cut down your own tree. So basically, we paid them to let us do all the work. But hey, it's worth the money to murder innocent plant life for yourself, right?
I have to admit, it did fill me with a sense of adventure: driving out into the wilderness for what seemed like an eternity of slushy roads; stomping around the snowy grounds of an exotic coniferous breeding haven; finding the perfect tree; listening with rapt attention to the arguing over how tall the ceilings in your house are and whether that monstrosity will fit through the door; watching with glee as Dad grazes his knuckle with the saw; reveling in the new curse words learned. This is what Christmas is all about.
Tree farm customers are crazier than Wal*Mart customers.
I remember fondly one year in which we got a glorious tree. We wrestled it into the back of the truck and hauled it home, envisioning the beautiful sight that it would be in our dining room. Then we got it home and lugged it up the porch steps only to find that we would have to take the door off of the hinges to barely fit the tree through. Even then we had to squeeze in the branches, creating a shower of sharp needles and sticky sap that seemed to cover everything in the tri-state area.
After getting the tree in the house, the next step was to get it into the stand. You know the kind of stand I'm talking about - a shallow red metal bowl with three warped green legs and three large screws that are meant to "secure" the tree. (You could put the Christmas tree stand on someone's head and have a merry little torture device.) We plunked the tree in the stand and I had the honor of tightening the screws. It took a good 30 minutes to get those screws tightened evenly. The tree didn't scream out in pain once, though. I commended it for its toughness and filled the bowl with water.
Don't look at it funny! It might crash the whole site!
When all the decorating was done we had a masterpiece of a Christmas tree. Songs have been sung of trees of lesser brilliance. It was beautiful! It was colorful! It was highly unstable! Yes, that's right - highly unstable. I'm sure many of you are familiar with the standard camera tripod. Can you imagine what would happen if you put a camera the size of a 9-foot-tall pine tree on it? If it's like our tree was, it will play dead at the slightest provocation.
And provoke it, I did. We happened to place our tree in the dining room near the stairs, and some of the branches happened to extend over the banister. The stairs happened to be carpeted, and I happened to be going up the stairs while wearing socks. As you know, carpet has a sporadic memory and sometimes it remembers that you walk all over it all day. Add to that the carpet's jealousy of the socks and their mobility, you've got a recipe for disaster. In my rush to get to the top of the stairs, I forgot the fickle nature of the carpet. It reduced its coefficient of friction enough for my socks to slide backwards causing me to lose my balance. I flailed wildly and grabbed for anything that would keep me from falling down the steps. You would think that "anything" would include the banister. You would be wrong. I instinctively grabbed the tree branches, which didn't work out too well for me. Not only did it not keep me from falling, I took the tree out with me. Pine needles, ornaments, and water went everywhere and I learned the answer to the age-old question "If you knock a tree down in the dining room and your family is there to hear it, will they think you're a clumsy jackass?" That answer is "Yes".
The warning signs were there. I just didn't heed them.
So I had to clean up the mess, of course. I was just glad that no presents had yet been placed under the tree. Pine needles and broken ornaments are one thing, but soggy wrapping paper would've pushed me over the edge. If that was the end of it, I could've had a joyful Christmas season. But you see, we also had a smart-ass dog who hated people. Several times after the incident, our dog would sniff around the base of the tree wagging his tail. To me, his intent was clear. He knew that my reputation was sullied and that he had a prime opportunity to cause destruction without getting punished for it. He knocked over the tree twice more that season and I got the blame for it both times. The next year, we said farewell to the tree farm and bought a fake tree.
It still leans to the right, but it's smaller and less threatening.
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