The Cursed Christmas Tree by mara

Christmas tree shopping has traditionally proved to escalate into a big family ordeal consisting of my parents forcing us kids to create some “family time”, where my mother guarantees that we will bond together and enjoy each other’s company. My brothers and I mock the experience while my parents bicker about anything and everything. We all pretend, well more so my parents than us kids, like we are one “happy family” with little to no problems. Obviously, no family actually fits this fantasy, but frankly every family believes they do. Our little adventures are filled with fun forced smiles and unpleasant tensions. It terminates in my mother and father enclosing themselves in their bedroom so they can have some “privacy” to finish their argument, but honestly can they be that dense? Because the walls certainly aren’t and my two brothers and I hear every word. We retire to one of our rooms and play Nintendo. What great family time.

Now, my parents are divorced and both my brothers abandoned me to ventured to college. This year’s experience revolutionized the usual family voyage into the woods, hiking through the snow and thick forests to attempt to cut down our own tree, yet always forgetting that we actually need to cart the tree back through the feet of powder and interwoven branches. I haven’t gotten a tree with my Dad, but I predict it won’t even measure up to the thrilling Christmas tree journey I underwent with my mom.

My mother and I decided that since we just moved to a small house it would be easier if we got a small tree. She justified this by saying that a small tree is actually better because it is cozier, we don’t have much room in our house, and it is much cuter than a really tacky large tree. My auto response agreed with her, but truthfully I approved because getting a big tree means a lot more work and time with my mother, which I preferred to avoid. So, we drove to King Soopers and I spotted a tree right out in front. My mother disappeared into the store to buy it and hunt down an attendant to help us cut the trunk and attach it to my car. She returned with a short, chubby man holding a rusted saw. My mom tilted the tree awkwardly because she didn’t really know how to handle it and position it in a way that the man could cut the trunk, and as it turned out the man didn’t really know what to do with it either. He fooled around with positioning the saw on the tree and finally began to stab at the trunk. He had some difficultly maintaining saw to tree contact, and the saw slipped repeatedly and sliced dangerously close to his hand. My mother and I only watched in horror for a few minutes because as I stared, mesmerized by the all to familar movie scene where the saw slips in slow mo and hacks off his hand, I pictured the inevitable law suit, King Soopers vs. Debbie MacKillop. Since that clearly wasn’t a positive outcome, my mother and I volunteered to finish chopping the tree at home, but asked if he could help us fasten the tree to my roof. He didn’t have any ropes and couldn’t lift the tree onto the car, so we shoved it into my trunk. This helped me out because my car still reeked of pot and filthy boys from when my brother borrowed my car for a few days. Now, it smelled like pine needles and Christmas. Although now, that smell vanished and the odor of sweaty college guys has returned.
The rest of the night went smoothly with the tree; we situated the it in the stand, strung the lights, and dangled the ornaments from the branches. I went to bed feeling satisfied with the experience. No one got seriously injured, and I felt all warm inside like your supposed to feel when you become filled with Christmas spirit. My mother spent the night babbling about how she could have a wonderful Christmas without my dad and how we would remember these memories forever. She asked me ifI was proud of her and all her hard work. Everything changed at 6:00 a.m. when I awoke to a shrill high pitched screech which persisted even after I ignored her for a few solid minutes. Finally, I went to investigate. The tree had fallen over.

The water from the stand leaked out all over the hardwood floor and carpet. There was a maze of broken glass and clay from the ornaments crushed by the fall. I clumsily followed my mother’s directions and held the tree while she went to the kitchen to get some towels. She let out a desperate caw as she realized she just stepped barefoot in the largest dog shit I have ever seen. To top it off, the poo had now gotten smashed in our carpet. She proceeded to hobble into the kitchen, and as she went she described the texture and feeling of the poop on her foot. The smell of the new addition to our Christmas decorations infected the house. I didn’t really mind any of this because I was just holding the tree and I wasn’t the one who stepped in shit, but the dialogue killed me. It was too early for graphic poop descriptions and dramatic monologues of how all her Christmas hopes were ruined and how the tree was a metaphor for her life. I zoned her out and at 6:45 when we were done, I stumbled back to bed.

The next day I pondered the event. At first I was pissed. I lost sleep and had to listen to my mother lecture me about shit. Then, I realized I was being unfair, although, I continued to feel upset. I wondered why this would happen, because it really was so unnecessary. It was my mother’s first Christmas after a painful year and she could have survived without the tree crashing and stepping in poop. I thought about whether this was a complete accident or if it had some deep purpose. Was God playing a sick joke? Or was he bored and needed some twisted entertainment? Was my mother right, was the tree a metaphor for life? Slowly I recognized in English class that this would make a funny anecdote for a free write. In fact, it proved to develop into an amusing story. Everything is fixed and Christmas will continue. It also followed tradition and contained some forced conversation and strained smiles. So I guess this Christmas tree shopping experience really wasn't that different than the previous years, except this year we trekked through shit, not snow.