Rockin Around the Christmas Tree

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Here is the original deal. I promised to retrieve the antique family Christmas tree from storage and assemble it. In addition, I would endure the annual agony of making all the tiny lights light. I believe it would be simpler to re-wire my cell phone, but that was not part of the bargain.

In return, my daughter would bring a few grandchildren over. Then, in a frenzy of holiday togetherness, we would decorate the tree. The plan had a few flaws from the beginning.

Flaw number one is the tree, itself. It is stored in a 6’ long cardboard sarcophagus when not in use. The box is decrepit and may have seen its last Christmas. The tree comes out of the box in sections. Each section has a basic string of lights permanently installed and ready to plug into the wall. It never works the first two or three attempts, but they do not mention that in the instructions.

I attacked the problem early on Saturday morning. The first pass, I got the sections out of order and the tree looked like a pagoda. I took it apart and began again. As I re-stacked the sections, I made careful note of the location of the electrical connections between each string.

Then, two hours later, I was ready to throw the switch. (Try to recall Clark Griswold and his Christmas lights in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.) I made all the connections and stabbed the cord into the outlet. Ta-Da! The top third of the tree blazed into life.

Okay, I must have missed something. I disassembled it and began again. Ta-Da!

Now, the top and middle lit, but the bottom remained dark.

On the third attempt and just before pitching the tree into the creek, all the lights lit. I had crawled around on the floor and stuck myself with potentially toxic fake pine needles for over four hours.

Then my daughter and the assembled Ant Hill Mob arrived. My daughter began artfully hanging ornaments, while the g’children were content with emptying the boxes containing the ornaments. They wanted to find the good ones.

Me? I collapsed in my chair, spent.

In time, one grandson discovered the Christmas tree box and, after glancing around furtively, slipped inside. He was in there for a few minutes before he called out “Hey, somebody find me!”

I fell for it. I tiptoed over to the box calling “Where’s William?” Small chuckles issued from the box.

“Well, I guess I better put up this old box before someone gets trapped inside,” I said loudly.

Then I picked up the box by the two top handles and began swinging it around and bouncing it off the various upholstered furniture. Squeals of delight and mock terror filled the room and the box. After a long time of flinging my heavy grandson about, I put it down, allowing him a chance to escape. Flushed with excitement, he said “That was great, Grandfather. Can we do it again?”

“Oh no,” I thought, “what have I done?”

“No, Grandfather, do me, do me,” echoed the chorus.

Sure enough, everyone wanted a nice long ride, just like his or her brother/cousin got.

I managed it, but it took a heavy toll. I have been on an Advil diet ever since.

You would think I would learn after five years of this how these things can get out of control. Apparently, I have some sort of mental or character defect preventing me from growing up and from engaging in self-preservation behavior.

Oh, what the heck. It IS Christmas, after all.

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