(And whatever you do … do not place it in the microwave to see if it will explode!)
The murders began at the end of November and continued through December.
Some of the murders were done by hired killers out in the countryside. Others were committed by dedicated dads and moms in the suburbs to please their offspring. Still others were carried out by well intentioned young men from the city to impress their girlfriend or new bride.
These brutalities were accomplished with chainsaws, axes, hatchets, or other sharp-edged implements — in broad daylight!
No one reported hearing any screams. When interviewed, folks reported the victim was very quiet, never caused any trouble, and kept to themselves. Then, the witness would slam their door shut to prevent reporters from peering into their own homes.
Why? What were they hiding? Did they commit one of these atrocities themselves? Was there a path of evidence strewn across their living room floor leading to the front door? And what was that scattering of brownish-green specks trailing to the curb?
Yes. Christmas is over, and the dead bodies of blue spruce, balsam pine, and every species of fir tree are piling up outside of homes across America.
We chop them down. Drag them in. Argue over the best side to face ‘out’ avoiding the obvious hole Mother Nature laughingly placed in the most inconvenient spot. Adorn them with ornaments that refuse to hang straight and lights that never fail to blink out in one section just when we think we’re all done. Water them when we manage to remember. Declare them to be the most beautiful Christmas tree we’ve ever had. Demand family and friends pose in front of them for photos. Become one with our vacuum cleaner for the duration of the holidays.
Then . . . when the New Year celebrations end, we strip our victims of their colorful decorations, curse their falling needles poking up through our carpets, and drag them to the curb. No remorse. No fond farewell. No looking back. Good riddance.
A simple promise passing our lips: “No live tree ever again.”
Until next year comes, and the killing begins again.
STAY CALM, and:
Finish shopping for your family, and 75 of your closest friends and colleagues, making sure you stay under that $200 limit you set for yourself this year;
Bake 500 dozen cookies that are so special no one has ever eaten them before;
Decorate at least three trees of varying size for inside your house with different themes, one of which must be woodland creatures;
Check batteries on all those “safe” candles you now own, so the cats and dogs, and babies don’t set themselves on fire;
Add one more string of lights outside, so TV station satellites can pick out the glow of your home from space;
Cook every kind of meat that exists so everyone (including that Uncle we all have) enjoys Christmas dinner;
Cook every vegan dish you can think of so the two people you know who are vegan don’t starve;
Send out at least two thousand Christmas/holiday cards to remind everyone you’ve ever met in your life that you are still alive;
And, most importantly — make sure the liquor cabinet is well-stocked, so you can accomplish all of the above!
Enjoy the holidays . . . and try not to hurt anyone.
From our castle to yours … MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!
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It’s a windy fall day . . .
The kind of day where the last of the dry, dead leaves are ripped from the trees and are tossed high in the air, and tumbled over and over before they come to rest on the brown, crisp, dying lawns of the suburbs.
Raking occupied the last three weekends. Too soon.
But—the current windy day (one of the last of its kind this autumn) has decided to conduct one more performance by rustling the uppermost leafy branches of its arboreal orchestra.
The sky provides a bright blue curtain behind the pine, maple, oak, and dogwood musicians.
I watch and listen again to the wind as it takes its last gasp of warmth before winter.
For some reason, I always hear a balalaika playing “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago.
That is the magic of the wind.
It is almost autumn in the northeastern United States. Two more days.
There are no more bright green leaves splashing against the hot summer skies.
There are only tired, slowly drying, brownish remnants drooping from transitioning boughs.
There are no beautiful crimson, orange and yellow leaves speckling the trees. Not yet.
Nature is at one of its awkward stages. The in-between time. The time between fond remembrance and eager anticipation.
I hate this time of year. It’s like being eleven again. Not good. Not old enough to have a boyfriend or girlfriend—but too old to play doctor with any friend.
C’mon, nature. Get on with it. Fall!
Stern Words 