Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, December 15, 1994 TAG: 9412150017
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: BETH MACY
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
``I can't tell unless I move away by the door.'' I let go of the Christmas tree I'm holding up, and immediately it falls into the wall.
``[EXPLETIVE!!]''
For an hour my husband has been trimming the trunk of the Christmas tree on the front porch, hauling it inside and then trying to squeeze, shimmy and cuss it into our cheap aluminum tree stand.
As has been the case throughout my 30-year tree-trimming tenure, the experience has not been jolly.
Bow saws have been brandished, clippers have been corralled. Nerves have been stomped, frayed and otherwise gotten on.
My husband, normally an amiable type who is known among his six-sibling family as the peace-keeper, has resorted to monosyllabic grunts.
As he bends over for round five of the tree trunk battle, I notice a sap stain on the butt of his Dockers. I consider mentioning it, but decide to put on some holiday music instead. Ella Fitzgerald's swing version of ``Santa Claus is Coming to Town'' always cheers him up (``Look at that crazy red suit...'').
``To the left about 10 degrees," I say. "No, too far, now to the right. . . THERE! ... stand back and take a look.''
He grunts one last time, delivers the final torque to the tree-stand screws, then tentatively lets go. The stand teeters, then kicks a leg in the air. This time the tree falls on the staircase.
``[UNINTELLIGIBLE GRUNT, FOLLOWED BY INTELLIGIBLE BUT UNPRINTABLE EXPLETIVE!]''
I am reminded of the Christmases of my youth - the ritual arguments over where to go, which tree to get, how much to pay and how to tie it to the car.
This was followed by the disappointment of hauling the tree home - only to be told that we had to wait overnight to put it up.
``It has to fall,'' my mom would say, referring to the drooping of the branches. ``Otherwise it'll make a MESS!''
If Mom could see me now, I think, my husband splayed on the floor by the fir, more needles on him and the floor than on the tree.
Suddenly a lightbulb goes off above my head.
It is brighter than the strand of lights I'm about to string across the living-room floor - only to discover an electrical short. It is more perceptive than my newly refined mother's sense of smell (I recently sniffed out a poopy diaper - on someone else's kid - from two restaurant tables away, thank you).
It could, in fact, save my marriage.
I suggest a return trip to Lowe's, whence came the tree.
My husband gets this mildly angry, mildly confused look on his face. No stranger to the dreaded return trip to Lowe's, he knows there are always financial and emotional costs involved.
``The cast-iron tree stand!'' My voice rings out above Ella's jazzy ``Jingle Bells'' (``Oh that vibration, syncopation of a one-horse open sleigh ... I'm just crazy 'bout horses'').
I remind him that the $19.99 sticker price is much cheaper than marriage counseling.
Take my checkbook, I offer.
Do not pass go.
Do not return without heavy metal in hand.
You should've seen us later, gathered around our fully operational Douglas Fir like something from ``It's a Wonderful Life.''
``Is it straight yet?'' he had asked, adjusting the stand without cursing a single time.
Standing back by the door, I noticed a slight lean to the right, easily correctible with our new $19.99 marriage-enrichment device from Lowe's.
But why quibble over a few degrees?
``It's perfect.''
POWER OF THE PAWS: You might recall Tigger Hudson from last week's column. A gray tiger-striped cat, she had wandered away from her owner, Susan Hudson, some 31/2 years ago before being spotted a few weeks ago two miles away from the Hudson home - minus two-thirds her tail.
Hudson made a plea last week for information clearing up the mystery of the partial tail.
``She lost it in a fan belt accident,'' Hudson said on Monday. Alfreda Clark of Starlight Lane phoned Hudson after last week's column to say that her son, Irvin Clark, had kept the cat in Meow Mix during her hiatus.
Tigger liked Lewis so much that she frequently sat on his chest while he worked underneath his truck. She apparently had an affinity for his truck's fan belt, too.
``This is the only cat he ever took a liking to - because Tigger was the best mouser he'd ever seen; she always worked for her keep,'' Hudson said.
And better yet, he wasn't sad to give the cat up. ``His mom said he was happy she found her way home - but he was gonna miss the mouser.''
Beth Macy, a features department staff writer, recommends the all-cat chorus CD, ``Jingle Cats,'' for your holiday listening pleasure, especially the ``Hava Nagila'' meow-polka. Her column runs Thursdays.
by CNB