O Christmas Tree O Christmas Tree How Broken Are Your Branches

It's time to put the Christmas tree up again!

For many of you this may involve schlepping an aromatic pine or spruce into the living room. For others it might be a trip to the garage to haul out the annual plastic model. For me, it means it's time to re-post my favorite Christmas tree story.  So once again for it's annual airing, here is my story about the ugliest Christmas tree. Please feel free to share this others.

I was relaxed, taking in the stereo when a commercial interrupted my listening pleasure.

"Make this Christmas one that she'll never forget," droned the announcer. "Yeah," I thought. "Spend big bucks and everyone will love you. Spend enough and we may even have peace on earth."

Christmas commercialism, it seems to get worse ever year. Do not get me wrong. I enjoy Christmas. It just bothers me that everyone thinks you have to spend a lot of money to have a merry one. I thought back to the commercial, "the best Christmas ever." It took my memories back to the Christmas of my 10th year, my most unforgettable holiday.

My family and I had moved to Arizona from Chicago four years before. Arizona was in a serious recession. My father, who had always provided a healthy paycheck for his wife and five children, could not find work. We got by on unemployment checks.

Jobs were plentiful in Chicago and my father's former boss was anxious to take him back. However, after four years of quiet, safe and sunny Arizona living, my mother refused to return to the Windy City. If my father could not find employment he would return to Illinois, send money, and the rest of the family would remain in Arizona.

It was a sad time - the bickering about money, worrying if my dad would have to move away. Christmas was an added burden. Money was tight enough without the added expense of the holiday. My mother explained the financial situation to us and we knew not to expect much in the way of presents.

Of course the brightly decorated evergreens we had enjoyed in the past were out of the question. We never even asked about one. Instead we pulled a three-foot aluminum tree out from the garage. The cold tinsel stalk inspired about as much Christmas spirit as a box of Reynolds wrap.

While everyone else decorated the tree, I decided to take a stroll. As I walked toward the end of the block, I turned right so I could investigate the bowling alley parking lot where they had been selling Christmas trees. I loved the scent of the pine in the cold air, another of many reasons I hated our artificial tree. As I neared the lot, I saw that it was bare. I kicked at the fragments of broken branches. In the corner, lying on its side, was a long misshapen evergreen.

It was easy to see why the tree was discarded. However, something inside of my brain clicked. The poor tree needed a home. My home needed a tree. I grabbed the trunk, but I was not strong enough to move it. I ran home to fetch my younger brother, Terry, who I was sure would assist in my plight. As it is so often the case with brothers, Terry lacked my enthusiasm.

"I don't even think a dog would use that tree," he laughed.

"Maybe so, but it would make a fine fort," I replied. With that in mind, Terry helped me transport the tree down the block and into our back yard.

My mother looked up from washing the dishes as we walked up the driveway, and warned us against bringing that "filthy thing" into the house.

"Its for a fort!" Terry exclaimed. I just smiled.

Once the tree was in the back yard, I sent Terry on another mission. I had no intention of turning the evergreen into a fort - at least not yet.

My dad walked up and looked at the tree. It was long, sparse on the top with heavy branches on the bottom. I was sure I could win him over, so I explained my scheme to him.

"You could chop a foot off the bottom and cut the branches off and drill holes where the tree is bare and do a little transplanting," I said.

My older sister, Diane walked out and spied the tree. "Father, you are not going to let her bring that thing in the house are you?" Diane shrieked.

"I don't see why you don't like it," I said. "It looks just like you. Not enough on the top and too much on the bottom."

Diane walked off in a huff.

Whether dad was bored, liked my idea, or was caught up in my enthusiasm I cannot be sure. But soon a drill and saw were out and "Ernie" the unwanted evergreen became a beautiful Christmas tree.

Dad brought the tree inside and we placed the few ornaments we had on Ernie. To help fill in the uncovered areas, we strung popcorn and pyracantha berries and cut out little ornaments from paper. Even my 18-year-old brother, Dennis, who was fond of imitating Scrooge and saying "Bah Humbug" to any mention of Christmas, helped to get Ernie into shape.

We did not have any Christmas lights, so Terry and I pooled our money, about 90 cents, and we got the rest of the cash from "Jack rabbit," my little sister Tina's bank. I am ashamed to say it was an unauthorized withdrawal.

One string of lights did not cover much, so we pushed the tree into a corner and decorated only the front. Despite the circumstances, I was happy. We all were. Never before, and unfortunately never afterward, do I remember my family working together so joyfully. For a short while, we were happy to be together and share what we had, each other.

That was the last Christmas we celebrated together as a family for a long time. Shortly afterward, my father returned to Chicago, unable to come home permanently until I was 16.

Except for my nemesis, Diane, my siblings and I still live in Arizona. Most holidays, we get together to exchange insults and presents. Our Christmas trees are always magnificent and the presents are plentiful and brightly decorated. You will not find strings of popcorn or pyracantha berries anywhere.

Christmas carols, if they were sung (and they are not) would be drown out by the big football games that are always scheduled in honor of the birth of Jesus.

I still think back to my childhood and that yuletide of my 10th year, and I know a truckload of presents could not match the happiness I felt that day. It was a special time when my father listened to me and made a small dream come true. And it all happened because of a poor misshapen Christmas tree that nobody else wanted.

Yard Work is Weedy, Weedy Fun

In a cynical moment while posting on facebook (and yes, even the author of a self help book can have a bloody snark attack on occasion) I wrote that I couldn’t decide what was more exciting – writing or pulling weeds. My niece, Lisa, quickly responded that I should write. I began a new blog article, “The Cross-eyed Optimist.” Ironically, I can’t find it. Hopefully it will turn up in my files in the future.

However, my friend and former Westwood High School classmate, Dick Luebke, was interested in the possible excitement surrounding pulling weeds. With the exception of my screenplays, I rarely write fiction. So now, because I like Dick and he has called me on my facebook challenge, I feel compelled to come up with something good to say about pulling weeds.
However, as odd as it may sound, I have a few insights on the subject.

When I was a kid, one of the few tasks my mother was willing to pay us for was to pull weeds. Rosebushes lined the entire front row of our front lawn and weeds would grow in between the thorny plants. We lived in a small, older home, but we had a big yard. Lots of roses, lots of weeds. However, the reward for accomplishing this weed-pulling project was $1. At the time my allowance was 25 cents a week, so a buck would be a virtual windfall.

I tugged at a few of the weeds and thought I was making good headway. But when my mom came out to inspect, she told me I couldn’t just pluck the weeds, I had to pull the stringy devils out by the roots. Between the cement like dirt, thorny rose bushes, the magnitude of the project on a hyper active kid, and now the more difficult stipulation of pulling the offending plants out by the roots, I felt overwhelmed. I gave up part way through the job. All I had to show for my efforts were sore hands, scratched arms and not one red cent.

Later, when my spouse and I owned homes of our own, I went back to the task of ridding the yard of milk weed and wild mustard.. There were times when it was relaxing to sit next to the earth, pull a weed (sometimes by the roots, sometimes not) and enjoy a nice sunny day. My favorite yard was the one surrounding our home on Brown Road in Mesa, AZ. The lot was a little under ½ acre. The home was built in 1945 and it reminded me of my childhood home only a mile away. The property had been part of a farm years ago. Sometimes as I would pull weeds (or mow the lawn) I would imagine what it was like to plow the fields and live off the land. Not that I ever wanted to do this, but it was fun to imagine.

More realistically, yard work was a respite from my duties as a young mother, college student, wife and waitress. There were few expectations in my landscaping adventure. I didn’t need to study or pass a test, take orders from customers and hope they left a tip, or tend to the needs of crying babies or change stinky diapers (although an occasional fecal present from a visiting dog might appear and require disposal.)

It was just me, a pair of gardening gloves and the earth.

However, after we sold our home on Brown Road, we transitioned away from big lawns and opted for desert landscaping and minimal yard work. An errant weed would pop up on occasion, but for the most part the weeds and I distanced ourselves from one another.

Decades later I moved to the Pacific Northwest. Even more amazing than the amount of rain that falls is the number of weeds that grow. In Arizona I was careful in my weed-pulling duties as I did not want to pluck out a wildflower by mistake. After we moved north, and on a rare hour when it wasn’t raining, I would inspect the multitude of greenery in the front, back and side yards. Were these green leafy creatures friend or foe? By the time I figured it out, the weeds were giants. Heck, Jack could forget about the beanstalk and come to our place and use the weeds as a stairway to heaven.




The good news is the ground up here is soft and the weeds pull out easily (even the roots.) As I garden my thoughts simplify and my mind becomes more focused. I enjoy the smell of the earth, the brilliance of the different hues of green of the various plant life, the sound of the birds chirping and I allow myself a simple smile at the occasional spotting of a lady bug or worm.

When I finish with the task at hand, I can survey my handiwork and take pride in the absence of the obnoxious weed devils that are choking the life out of our other plants, flowers and trees.

I also discovered there is a strong correlation between pulling weeds and controlling negativity (the theme of our book, Erase Negativity and Embrace the Magic Within.) Imagine your grouchy thoughts, speech and actions are like weeds. At first the thorny plants seems harmless so you do not take any action against them. Unfortunately, if left unchecked the weeds spread, choke off the life force of other more useful plants, and soon become the dominating force in your garden (or mind.)
Like weeding a garden, identifying negativity, pulling it out from its proverbial roots and replacing the offenders with more empowering thoughts, speech and actions is a powerful step in creating a happier life. It IS hard work, but so worth the effort.

I just came in from pulling weeds from the side yard. I may have disappointed my friend, Dick. It isn’t a thrilling experience to pull weeds. I felt a sense of pride and satisfaction at the work I accomplished today. And, of course, I wrote this little story. That wasn’t exactly a trip to the exhilaration store either.

However, after I post this, I’m in hopes that folks will read it. And maybe, just maybe, someone will find the article useful and it will give them a little nudge toward cultivating a more empowering mindset and life. If that happens, THAT is as exciting as it gets.