Festival of Frights

The most important lesson I've learned this holiday season is that life is as precious as it is fragile.

This thought entered into my head as I stood tiptoe upon an unsteady ladder next to our enormous evergreen tree, my sweaty outstretched hand shakily clutching a paint roller extension pole duct-taped to a steel blade rake, swatting at a string of Christmas lights dangling two feet above my head.

This thought was promptly superseded by a string of colorful expletives followed by my husband's name. My husband is anti-festive. Lights are too much of a hassle, real trees are too messy, presents are a waste of money. So all things merry and bright fall squarely upon my shoulders. And believe me – I like my things excessively merry and nauseatingly bright.

It took me three hours and five near-death experiences to thread twelve strands of twinkle lights upon a twenty-foot evergreen. The grand finale came when I had the brilliant idea to tape the tail end to a baseball and throw the baseball over the tree to light the tip top. Not only did this fail miserably, but I think I knocked an unsuspecting dove out of its nest unconscious onto the sidewalk.

I declared the job good enough and crossed the street to join my kids playing in the neighbors' yard.

“It looks great,” One of my neighbors said, handing me a beer. Overall I was pleased with her compliment, though I had hoped for a tad more jealousy in her voice.

“Uh-oh – your lights just went out,” My other neighbor said. I turned around, slowly lowering the beer from my mouth and saw she indeed was right.

I forced a smile that probably looked more like the face a wolverine makes when it is being impaled.

What I said: “Oh, no big deal.”

What I thought: “The moon will turn red as blood, and the headless horseman will lay waste to this miserable little suburban public squalor if those lights don't come right back on.”

I've never prayed so hard in my life. “Please, Lord, please let it just be some woodland creature that electrocuted itself and caused a short that is easy to fix.”

Strolling non-nonchalantly across the street I casually glanced at the bottom of the tree and saw the cord was still plugged in. I jiggled it a couple of times. Nothing. Walking over to the outlet on the house I didn't see any obvious problems. I unplugged it and re-plugged it a couple of times. Nothing.

“Probably just the breaker,” I called to the neighbors and laughed. “I'll just go give it a quick check!”

“And if it's not you all will perish in flames,” I whispered as I skipped down the basement stairs.

It wasn't the breaker. Walking back out to the tree, pretending like I wasn't having a nervous breakdown, I unplugged the extension cord from the first strand and plugged it into the second strand. The lights came on and I swear I heard angels sing. For a minute I thought I had been electrocuted and was dead, but then I realized it was in my head.

“See? No big deal!” I said re-joining my neighbors. I wondered if they noticed I had aged five years in the last ten minutes.

As nighttime fell, my beautiful creation was illuminated up and down the street. “I can't wait to be the talk of the neighborhood,” I thought as I walked outside to shut them off for the night and noticed the tree was black as cow turds.

My jaw dropped and I felt a lump make its way into my throat. “Nooooo!” I screamed, dropping to my knees and shaking my fists at the sky.

The next morning I tried the trick again – unplugging the extension cord from the second strand (which was now the first) and plugging it into the third (which was now the second). And again, angels sang. Now my only problem was that the bottom of my tree was dark. And I'll be danged at this point if my tree was anything short of perfection.

No problem, I'll just run to Wal-Mart and pick up a couple more strands. Now, little did I know that after Halloween there is no just “running in” anywhere. It is a battle for a parking space, a fight through the store, and only a select few make it to the checkout lane.

Back home the frigid wind whipped through my now almost defunct soul as I re-strung two strands on the bottom. I held my breath as I plugged in the extension cord... success. For two whole minutes, the lights blazed bright. Then they went out, taking the last of my Christmas spirit with them. I unplugged the first strand and plugged them into the second strand where they stayed lit for a whole ten minutes. Then blackness. I felt my eyes start to drift in opposite directions. The next day I would go back to the store. This tree would not defeat me. I would emerge victorious.

“Exactly how much money do we have invested in this tree so far?” My husband asked as I transferred money out of our kids' college funds.
I took a deep breath.

“Let me see... how do I explain this? You see, Christmas is like a game of poker. You can't just walk away once you have sunk a ton of money into a hand. No, no my friend – you have to see it through and continue funneling money in until you call the tree's bluff.”

“Are you okay?”

Oh yes. Yes. Because what the tree doesn't know is that I hold the high card.”

“What's that?”

“A chainsaw.”

At the store I scanned the box. “What does this mean... 'heavy duty – can accommodate up to twelve strands end to end? All lights can't accommodate as many strands as you want?”
“How should I know? I'm a big ole curmudgeon and hate anything fun or festive.”  (or something like that)

Eureka. I had figured it out. I bought the commercial grade. You can see those suckers from the space station and could barely wait to get out of the van to hang them on the tree. As I type this they are still working.

Like how I used to check my newborn babies every five minutes while they slept, sometimes I walk outside randomly in the middle of the day and plug them in just to give myself a little precious relief.

And it is majestic and beautiful, a beacon of holiday grace in our yard. But God help me if that dove thinks she can return to her nest.  I will flay her.   

_{Photo of the frightful tree: Hannah Mayer}