The Christmas Tree
- Dec 13, 2017
- 4 min read
“It’s not a fish, it’s a starfish.” Thus do I correct my four-year-old, trying to impart college-level biology as we roam through the aquarium. “Gets confusing, huh?”
She nods, sage in her wisdom, soaking up every drop of information. This kid’s gonna be a scientist someday, or an engineer. Or possibly a dancer, the way she’s always moving.
“Come on, time to meet your sister and pick out a Christmas tree.”
She hesitates, torn between the pet-able rays and the thought of tramping through snow to select the lushest thing to harvest. This is a cut-your-own year, not exactly a tradition, but something she and her sister remember enough to look forward to. Who knew it’d make that much of an impression last year on a three-year-old?
An hour later, we’re not tramping through snow, we’re slogging though mud, the churned-up mess left behind by earlier shoppers. Saw in hand, I lag behind. Dads are not part of this decision-making process, and I’m rather glad of that. Leave it to Mom and the girls.
“Long-needle or short? The longer ones are softer.” “We did long last year.” “I don’t like the short ones.” “They’re easier for getting ornaments on the branches.” “Everyone else has short this year. I wanta be different.” “Ooh, this one’s nice.” “Not the back side.” “So put that against the wall.” “We’d need three walls. Look at this gap.” “Okay, keep looking.”
And this is all before we even start the ornament discussion. Handmade or store bought? Popcorn or food-free? Big old-fashioned lights or the little blinky ones? Silently, I wonder how we accumulated so much variety already. We’re not very old. And by the way, how long it will take to find the right boxes in the attic? There’s a football game this evening.
Think I’ll practice my ‘bah-humbugs’ now. Pretty sure it’ll irritate my kids just as much as my own father’s did. Now there’s a family tradition for you. Heh, heh.
Ah, they’ve picked one. I’m up to bat.
“Don’t cut it so low. We need more trunk before the branches start.” “If I cut it down there, it won’t fit in the stand.” “If you cut it higher, the branches will keep it from fitting in.” “You want a smaller Christmas tree?” “No dad no dad no dad no!” “Look, it’s way too tall anyway. I’ll cut it here so it’ll fit the stand, then cut off these bottom two branches and it’ll slide in fine.” “But I like that branch.” “Children?” “Oh, all right. I guess we don’t want the star hitting the ceiling and bending the top down.” “Excellent conclusion.”
And now I cut.
Of course, we don’t have a car rack. So mounting the tree on the roof means buckling the kids in, shutting doors, rolling down windows, and passing the tie-down cord over the tree, through the windows, and round and round a few times. Add a pass through the front passenger’s window, and a loop over each bumper because some of us are paranoid about the dang thing flying off mid-trip, and we’re good to go. Who cares if sub-freezing winds are roaring around the vehicle for the hour-trip home? Call it Christmas spirit.
“Um, are you sure you can’t roll those windows up tighter against the rope? I’m freezing.” “Don’t worry. Just another forty-five minutes.”
And then we’re home, and the tree’s inside, and we’re staring at all the dog hair we forgot to clean up before bringing the tree in, and remembering how effectively the mix of hair and needles clogged the vacuum cleaner last year. And the year before that. And before that. Repeat after me: ‘slow learner.’
But hey, we used our time wisely on the way back. The moderately high-decibel evaluation of how to decorate the tree has been accomplished, and I was able to let the howling wind (and my nearly numb hands) distract me from most of it. So on with the process.
Until we come to a screeching halt half an hour later.
You see, what goes around comes around. And at one point my wife handed something to our four-year-old and told her to put it on the tree.
That little girl just froze, looked over at the rest of us, and informed us with all the gravity of the intelligentsia facing a mass of illiterati.
“It’s not a tree. It’s a Christmastree.”
Scourge
by Charley Pearson
Medical Thriller
August 14, 2018
Financially independent, biochemistry genius Stacy Romani grows up off the grid, while her Roma family takes advantage of her knowledge for their own gain.
Watching his family farm struggle, and traumatized by mass slaughter, Aatos Pires wants to heal animals but gets seduced by industry and goes to work for a big pharmaceutical company.
When Aatos’ co-worker Trinity creates a deadly doomsday virus, it puts the world population in jeopardy as it spreads exponentially. . .with no cure in sight.
Stacy and Aatos work alone to find a cure, as the CDC and FBI close in. Will they find a way to stop the plague or will it be the end of humanity?
About the Author:
Charley Pearson started in chemistry and biology, then moved on to bioengineering, so the Navy threw in some extra training and made him a nuclear engineer. This actually made sense when his major task turned out to be overseeing chemical and radiological environmental remediation at Navy facilities after the end of the Cold War, releasing them for unrestricted future use. Now he writes fiction.
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