Ow Christmas Tree

That’s not a mistake, that’s not a typo. As usual, our Christmas tree was one big “Owee.” This year, it was a bad scrape and a bunch of big blood blisters on my right hand, where the thumb meets the wrist. I got it carrying the tree into the house.

Every year, it’s something … which only goes to support the notion that I wish we didn’t buy and put up a fresh Christmas tree every year. I’d be perfectly satisfied with a lovely artificial tree.

But not the wife, oh no, not her.

She went out and bought one again, all by her lonesome, again. All I have to do, she said, was put it in the stand and carry it into the house. So after quite a bunch of grumble and curse, that’s what I did. And hurt myself again.

All she could say was “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” but with an invisible twinkle in her eye that she got me to participate in the tree tradition once again. She fumbled with the lights so I had to get it started for her. My eldest son, poor guy, got roped into helping.

Then, there’s the forced fun. Anytime you pass the tree, you have to add an ornament. So I go around the sofa and enter the kitchen from the other side. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.

Our tree is a Nordmann Fir, 5-6 foot tall. It has dark shiny needles with silver undersides, and what the grower calls a “unique” white bark. The tree supposedly has superior needle retention and a long shelf life. But who the hell keeps their tree on a shelf?

I suppose it’s pretty. And I suppose getting roped into helping was a good thing.