Oh, Christmas Tree!! - Margaret Ullrich

Continued from part 1

I thought I had dressed warmly.  

That fink, the ditzy receptionist, showed up looking like the Michelin Man.  She was ready to march to Thompson if necessary.  So were the three other women co-workers.  The other wives - who all knew better - had begged off.  I was alone with four career women who were full of the 'I am woman, hear me roar' career fever.  While they talked shop I felt as welcome as a lump of coal in a Christmas stocking.  

The Jewish co-workers - who I had hoped would keep the tree hunt frenzy within limits - had turned into lumberjacks.  They were also ready to march to Thompson if necessary.  After walking five minutes I couldn't feel my toes.  

We hadn't even gotten out of the parking lot.  I was doomed. 

I didn't know it could get that cold.  

We marched.  Finally, someone approved of a tree.  The men chopped.  The tree crashed.  The branches that hit the ground broke off the tree.  I said the bare side could be placed against a wall.  The heat from their glares should have restored my circulation.  It didn't.  We marched.  Someone approved of another tree.  

The men chopped.  The tree crashed.  It broke.        

God, it was cold.  

We were doomed to spend all day wandering like Flying Dutchmen on a quest to find the perfect unbreakable tree.  

The lot was littered with other broken felled trees.  Some trees had landed across their comrades in a criss cross pattern that looked like a cradle.  

A cradle, something soft, something to receive and hold... hold it - something to catch a damn tree!  

Nose drip and tears had frozen my mouth shut.  If I'd had the equipment I would've written my idea in the snow.  I slapped my face trying to restore circulation to my lower jaw.  Finally my lips parted.  I clutched Paul's arm.

"Cradle... tree... cradle," I mumbled and criss crossed my arms.  

The women thought I was pregnant and wanted a homemade cradle.  

Thank God, months of marriage and love had united Paul's mind to mine.  Months of marriage had also taught us that Paul was no carpenter so he knew the homemade cradle idea was bunk.  Paul caught on to my pantomime and told the others.  

Someone approved of another tree.  It would land on four broken trees.  

The men chopped.  The tree crashed.  It survived.  We marched.  

Someone approved of another tree.  It, too, survived.  

Christmas was saved.   

God, it was cold.

I didn't know it could get that cold.

     

Some fool was planning the next year's tree chopping expedition.  

Our First Winnipeg Christmas Tree - Margaret Ullrich

God, it was cold.

I didn't know it could get that cold.

I didn't know I'd ever be stupid enough to be outdoors in that kind of cold.

I didn't know I'd been stupid enough to marry someone stupid enough to work with people stupid enough to be out in that kind of cold.

It was our first December in Winnipeg.

We had grown up in New York City.  There people went to an empty parking lot 

where the trees had magically appeared, like the ground beef at the local market.  

No questions asked.  No one wanted to get too personal with an ornament.  

At the New York parking lot we'd browse, find a tree we liked and switch the price tag with the cheaper tree which no liked.  Then we'd carry the tree to the clerk, who gave us the fish eye as he noticed the fullness of such a good find, sighed and took our money.  The whole deal was done in ten minutes.  Another Christmas had begun.

Apparently, that isn't good enough for Winnipeggers.  

Oh, no, they have to get down and dirty with their holiday bushes.

I'll never forget how happy Paul was when he came home and told me we'd been invited to join a group of Winnipeggers for a real, old fashioned Christmas experience.  If I'd had a clue I'd have realized that giving birth in a barn, unaided, would've been 

an easier old fashioned Christmas experience.  

We were going to chop down a real Christmas trees, just like our ancestors.

Well, my parents are from Malta, a sunny Mediterranean island.  It just wasn't in my genes to know how to dress for a freezing, miserable, forced march through a blizzard-hit forest.  The windchill - which I still didn't understand - was in the 'exposed skin can freeze in 2 minutes' range.  That didn't sound good, so I said thanks, but no thanks.  

Somehow Paul convinced me that his entire future career prospects, our unborn kids' college fund and our golden years would all go up in smoke if I didn't join the mighty tree hunt.  His Jewish co-workers were going.  Everybody, even that ditzy receptionist who always dressed like a showgirl wannabe with skirts up to there, was going.  

So, we were going.    

God, it was cold.

part 2

Chop That Tree (part 4 - Margaret Ullrich)

We marched.  

Someone approved of another tree.  

The men chopped.  

The tree crashed.  

It broke.

God, it was cold. 

We were doomed to spend all day wandering like Flying Dutchmen on a quest to find the perfect unbreakable tree.  The lot was littered with other broken felled trees.  Some trees had landed across their comrades in a criss cross pattern that looked like a cradle.  A cradle, something soft, something to receive and hold... 

Hold it - something to catch a damn tree!

  

Nose drip and tears had frozen my mouth shut.  If I'd had the equipment I would've written my idea in the snow.  I slapped my face trying to restore circulation to my lower jaw.  Finally my lips parted.  I clutched Paul's arm.

"Cradle... tree... cradle," I mumbled and criss crossed my arms.  

The women thought I was pregnant and wanted a homemade cradle.  Thank God, months of marriage - misery and love - had united Paul's mind to mine.  Months of marriage had also taught us that Paul was no carpenter.  He knew the homemade cradle idea was bunk.  Paul caught on to my pantomime and told the others of my plan.  

Someone approved of another tree.  It would land on four broken trees.  The men chopped.  The tree crashed.  It survived.  We marched.  Someone approved of another tree.  It, too, survived.  

Christmas was saved. 

God, it was cold.

I didn't know it could get that cold.

I couldn't believe it.  

Some fool was planning the next year's tree chopping expedition.  

Chop That Tree (part 3 - Margaret Ullrich)

God, it was cold.

I thought I had dressed warmly.  

That fink, the ditzy receptionist, showed up looking like the Michelin Man.  She was ready to march to Thompson if necessary.  So were the three other women co-workers.  The other wives - who all knew better - had begged off.  One was even pregnant.  Or said she was.

I was alone with four career women who were full of the "I am woman, hear me roar" career fever.  While they talked shop I felt as welcome as a lump of coal in a Christmas stocking. 

The Jewish co-workers - who I had hoped would keep the tree hunt frenzy within limits - had turned into lumberjacks.  They were also ready to march to Thompson if necessary.  

After walking five minutes I couldn't feel my toes.  

We hadn't even gotten out of the parking lot.  

I was doomed. 

I didn't know it could get that cold. 

We marched.  Finally, someone approved of a tree.  The men chopped.  The tree crashed.  The branches that hit the ground broke off the tree.  

I said, "The bare side could be placed against a wall."  

The heat from their glares should have restored my circulation.  

It didn't.

part 4

Chop That Tree (part 2 - Margaret Ullrich)

I'll never forget how happy Paul was when he came home and told me we'd been invited to join a group of Winnipeggers for a real, old-fashioned Christmas experience.  If I'd had a clue I'd have realized that giving birth in a barn, unaided, would've been an easier old-fashioned Christmas experience.  We were going to chop down a real Christmas tree, just like our ancestors.

Well, my parents are from Malta, a sunny Mediterranean island.  It just wasn't in my genes to know how to dress for a freezing, miserable, forced march through a blizzard-hit forest.  The windchill - which I still didn't understand - was in the "exposed skin can freeze in 2 minutes" range.  

That didn't sound good, so I said, "Thanks, but no thanks."  

Somehow Paul convinced me that his entire future career prospects, our unborn children's college fund, our grandchildren's lives and our golden years' security and comfort would all go up in smoke if I didn't join the mighty tree hunt.  

His Jewish co-workers were going.  

Everybody, even that ditzy receptionist who always dressed like a showgirl wannabe with skirts up to there, was going.  

So, we were going.

part 3

Chop That Tree (part 1 - by Margaret Ullrich)

God, it was cold.

I didn't know it could get that cold.

I didn't know I'd ever be stupid enough to be outdoors in that kind of cold.

I didn't know I'd been stupid enough to marry someone stupid enough to work with people stupid enough to be out in that kind of cold.

It was our first December in Winnipeg.

Paul and I had grown up in New York City.  There people went to an empty parking lot where the trees had magically appeared, like the ground beef at the local supermarket.  No questions asked.  No one wanted to get too personal with an ornament.  

At the New York parking lot we'd browse, find a tree we liked and switch the price tag with the cheaper tree which no one liked.  Then we'd carry the tree to the clerk, who gave us the fish eye as he noticed the fullness of such a "good find", sighed and took our money.  The whole deal was done in ten minutes.  Another Christmas had begun.

Apparently, that isn't good enough for Winnipeggers.  Oh, no, they have to get down and dirty with their holiday bushes.

part 2

Deck The Halls by Margaret Ullrich

It didn't really feel like Christmas was coming because of the milder than normal weather and the lack of snow. But, at the beginning of December, we set up our decorations, including our tree.


A few years ago we bought an artificial tree. No more tree chopping for us. Customs give way to reality, especially when arthritis acts up. When we want a piney smell, we burn some scented candles. Now we don't have to worry about keeping the tree watered.


We also bought some old-fashioned bubble lights. We had bubble lights when we were kids and, to us, they add just the right touch.


We've cut back on some of our decorations. Some of them were more trouble than they were worth. A few years ago we bought a set of 8 electric candles that would light up as they played a medley of Christmas carols. A candle would glow as each note was hit. The candles were fine. The music was fine. But the set would start up whenever it detected a noise.


For example, if our dog Herbie walked by and shook his collar, we'd suddenly hear music. For a few years we had to unplug the musical candles whenever we left the house. Otherwise our dogs would panic when the music started up and we weren't home. Finally, we stopped setting up the candles.


We have icicle lights on our house's eaves. When I see them I really miss Bobo. When we let BoBo out after it got dark, he loved to sit on the side door's stoop and just stare at the lights for a while before walking off to do his business. I wish I knew what they meant to him. Did he think they were small stars that had settled on our house?


BoBo was our little holiday star.

Chop That Tree (part 2 - by Margaret Ullrich)

I thought I had dressed warmly.


That fink, the ditzy receptionist, showed up looking like the Michelin Man. She was ready to march to Thompson if necessary. So were the three other women co-workers. The other wives - who all knew better - had begged off. One was even pregnant. Or said she was.

I was alone with four career women who were full of the "I am woman, hear me roar" career fever. While they talked shop I felt as welcome as a lump of coal in a Christmas stocking.

The Jewish co-workers - who I had hoped would keep the tree hunt frenzy within limits - had turned into lumberjacks. They were also ready to march to Thompson if necessary.


After walking five minutes I couldn't feel my toes. We hadn't even gotten out of the parking lot. I was doomed.


I didn't know it could get that cold.


We marched. Finally, someone approved of a tree. The men chopped. The tree crashed. The branches that hit the ground broke off the tree.

I said, "The bare side could be placed against a wall."

The heat from their glares should have restored my circulation. It didn't. We marched. Someone approved of another tree. The men chopped. The tree crashed. It broke.


God, it was cold.


We were doomed to spend all day wandering like Flying Dutchmen on a quest to find the perfect unbreakable tree. The lot was littered with other broken felled trees. Some trees had landed across their comrades in a criss cross pattern that looked like a cradle. A cradle, something soft, something to receive and hold...


Hold it - something to catch a damn tree!


Nose drip and tears had frozen my mouth shut. If I'd had the equipment I would've written my idea in the snow. I slapped my face trying to restore circulation to my lower jaw. Finally my lips parted. I clutched Paul's arm.

"Cradle... tree... cradle," I mumbled and criss crossed my arms.


The women thought I was pregnant and wanted a homemade cradle. Thank God, months of marriage - misery and love - had united Paul's mind to mine. Months of marriage had also taught us that Paul was no carpenter. He knew the homemade cradle idea was bunk. Paul caught on to my pantomime and told the others of my plan.


Someone approved of another tree. It would land on four broken trees. The men chopped. The tree crashed. It survived. We marched. Someone approved of another tree. It, too, survived.


Christmas was saved.


God, it was cold.


I didn't know it could get that cold.


I couldn't believe it. Some fool was planning the next year's tree chopping expedition.

Chop That Tree (part 1 - by Margaret Ullrich)

God, it was cold.


I didn't know it could get that cold.
I didn't know I'd ever be stupid enough to be outdoors in that kind of cold.
I didn't know I'd been stupid enough to marry someone stupid enough to work with people stupid enough to be out in that kind of cold.


It was our first December in Winnipeg.


Paul and I had grown up in New York City. There people went to an empty parking lot where the trees had magically appeared, like the ground beef at the local supermarket. No questions asked. No one wanted to get too personal with an ornament.

At the New York parking lot we'd browse, find a tree we liked and switch the price tag with the cheaper tree which no one liked. Then we'd carry the tree to the clerk, who gave us the fish eye as he noticed the fullness of such a "good find", sighed and took our money. The whole deal was done in ten minutes. Another Christmas had begun.


Apparently, that isn't good enough for Winnipeggers. Oh, no, they have to get down and dirty with their holiday bushes.


I'll never forget how happy Paul was when he came home and told me we'd been invited to join a group of Winnipeggers for a real, old-fashioned Christmas experience. If I'd had a clue I'd have realized that giving birth in a barn, unaided, would've been an easier old-fashioned Christmas experience. We were going to chop down a real Christmas tree, just like our ancestors.


Well, my parents are from Malta, a sunny Mediterranean island. It just wasn't in my genes to know how to dress for a freezing, miserable, forced march through a blizzard-hit forest. The windchill - which I still didn't understand - was in the "exposed skin can freeze in 2 minutes" range.


That didn't sound good, so I said, "Thanks, but no thanks."


Somehow Paul convinced me that his entire future career prospects, our unborn children's college fund, our grandchildren's lives and our golden years' security and comfort would all go up in smoke if I didn't join the mighty tree hunt.

His Jewish co-workers were going.

Everybody, even that ditzy receptionist who always dressed like a showgirl wannabe with skirts up to there, was going.

So, we were going.


God, it was cold.

Part 2