a memory in the making

This may be the year that I'm forced to admit that Charlie Brown had the right idea, that spindly and fresh beats substantial and metal, and that pre-lit is not the be-all and end-all of holiday decor. Then again, that may just be the gas fumes talking.

I'm so not kidding.

Our tree really is pretty; I'll be sad when it's worn out or the lights all go dark, but, this year, it also seems to have absorbed ever droplet of the fumes released from the gas can ill-advisedly stashed in the garage (never fear, the sliding door and living room windows are open). I'm not sure I'd have noticed if I hadn't spent the last hour underneath as I wrestled with the lights and the screws in the stand, but, hoo boy. And baby Jesus, I do confess. I've been a hoosier* all along.

At first I was doing well despite my reluctant participation: I'd located those useless screws without fuss or delay, though they never made it into the box, and I'd lugged the thousand pounds of tree up two flights of stairs without incident or stroke-- all to please the girl and carry on my own stupid tradition. I hadn't even cursed! Of course, I put the wrong piece in the base first, but, that's just the way we do it. Every single year.

Then things started getting memorable. I don't mean to oversell--this is more the Year the Tree Smelled Like the Lawnmower than The Year Mom Passed Out In The Floor at least, so far. If I have anything to do with it, the garage will be reorganized, but that's all that may be up to me. No matter what, I'm sure this evening's goings on will become yet another Christmas story, an extra-classy remember-when. And who knows, at some point, we'll probably even decorate the tree.

* in my world, a Hoosier is not a person from Indiana, or at least not primarily. It's even in the dictionary (definition number two).