THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, December 23, 1994 TAG: 9412220192
SECTION: CHESAPEAKE CLIPPER PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY ERIC FEBER, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Medium: 57 lines
I was tired, my muscles ached, and I had sticky stuff all over my hands. I'd screamed at my family in public.
I'd made Scrooge look like the Welcome Wagon Lady. Next to me, the Grinch was the Easter Bunny.
What was it that transformed me from an easy-going family man into Attila the Hun?
It was my family's annual trip to buy a Christmas tree.
Every holiday season my wife and daughter take me, kicking and screaming, to stand in some tree lot, always in a cold wind, so I can stand there and hold up scrawny fir trees while they look on like art critics at some hip gallery opening.
My idea for buying a tree would be to walk in, pick the first one I saw, pay for it and take it home.
Not with my family. No sir. Buying a new car, picking a name for our daughter, even buying a pet cat didn't take half as long as it took for them to decide on the right tree.
``Naw, that one's too skinny,'' Claire, my daughter, said.
``That one leans weird,'' said Marian, my wife.
``It's too funny-looking,'' Claire said of a tree I had deemed perfect.
``Look,'' I shrieked. ``We're not choosing art work. This stupid thing will only be in our home long enough to drop pine needles everywhere. This won't be an heirloom. It's just a stupid tree!''
At this point, Marian and Claire were near tears and had already walked away from me.
``You always ruin Christmas,'' they sobbed in unison.
All I could do was follow them around the lot on my knees, whipping myself with pine needles, begging their forgiveness. They accepted it, of course, and we went through the ritual again and again until, at last, after my gloves had been soaked with pine sap and my hand resembled a porcupine thanks to all the needles, the right tree was chosen.
Now all we had to do was tie the thing down on our van so we could get it home without causing a pine-scented roadblock.
It took less time and trouble to rig a Spanish galleon than it did to tie the tree onto the roof of our car.
Once we arrived, I had to haul the sap-producing needle factory up four flights of stairs.
After finally getting the tree in the stand, my duty is over. No ranting and raving until the next season, which couldn't be any worse.
``Oh, Eric, by the way,'' Marian tells me. ``Next year we're all going to one of those tree farms and cut down our own tree! Won't that be fun?'' ILLUSTRATION: Photo
Eric Feber
by CNB