Timber

By TAD BARTIMUS

I'm usually sorry to see the holidays go, but not this year. I can finally stop sleeping with the fire extinguisher.
Our Christmas tree looked beautiful on the lot, its branches long and lush, its needles soft and silky.

"I want this one," I said. "It's the biggest."

"It's a little dry, lady. You sure you don't want the shorter one here? It's in better shape."

"No, no," I said, dismissing the salesman as an amateur.
 "I've been doing this a lot longer than you have, sonny. I know a winner when I see one."

When we got it home, half the needles stayed on the top of the car.

"It just needs some water," my husband said hopefully.

The Mississippi River couldn't help this tree. Even the cat wouldn't sleep under it. Every time I hung an ornament on it I got buried in needles. Our vacuum cleaner became a tacky, unwrapped present permanently parked on the skirt. 

That didn't stop me from yelling, "More lights, more lights!"
I wanted my tree to look like the one in Rockefeller Center -- adding 38 strings of lights, all on one plug. My husband, the English major, didn't think that was a good idea. Our annual argument ensued.

"Why not?" I snapped. "Daddy did it."

That, of course, is always the wrong thing to say.

"Okay," he answered, jaw tight. "Have it your way. When the house burns down it's your fault." 

Growing up, the words "artificial tree" were enough to get me grounded until Easter. My mother and father, each of whom had lost a parent in childhood, knocked themselves out to make Christmas magical. That meant the tallest, widest, thickest tree they could fit through the door. Never mind that dad always had to cut several feet off to fit the star on top; to my folks, the scent of pine was the smell of happiness.

Back then I lived in a cold climate, close to the source of Scotch pines, Blue Spruces and Douglas firs. Not now. My tree was cut months ago, loaded into a container and shipped 3,000 miles before I brought it home to mummify in my picture window.

It took me two nights to decorate the tree. Finally finished, I stood back to survey my handiwork. A branch fell off. 
I found the fire extinguisher in the broom closet. The safety pin was missing. "Does this mean the trigger can go off on its own?" I asked my husband. He smiled his devil smile. "Maybe."

He left to check the insurance policy; I moved the extinguisher next to my bed, aiming it straight at the molting tree. 

Then we went to a party at my friend Jean's house. In a corner stood a majestic pine, eight feet tall, twinkling with a thousand lights, swathed in ribbons and bows, teddy bears and ornaments dangling from each sturdy branch. I looked at the floor, not a needle in sight.

Sidling over, I pinched it. Plastic!

"I have a thought," I said the next morning as my husband returned from disposing of our sap-oozing skeleton. "Let's go to Sears."

He put the fire extinguisher back in the broom closet and I finished vacuuming the tree skirt -- for the last time.


© 2001 The Women Syndicate

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