Christmas workshop

It has been raining steadily for the past few days, the hours enveloped in a uniform grey that is punctuated by fog and periods of no rain. The periods of no rain don’t last very long. I walked over to check on the new shed, curious about its ability to weather the rain. It was dry inside. I’ll say this for the horrible little thing: It seems watertight.

The lumber I recently bought is neglected, all but forgotten on the front porch next door. If I don’t fasten it down soon, put it in place and screw it tight, it will start to warp—the poor-quality boards twisting this way and that, teaching me a lesson in procrastination. I would rather that not happen. I DID go over there, however—to erect the two Christmas trees I bought from my neighbors at the market. I put together an elaborate little stand made of scrap lumber—one for each tree. You can put a container of water down there that the trunk sticks out of. I use a cut-off milk jug for the purpose. The trees are very small and spindly—the way I like them. They look just fine with some lights, and are no trouble trying to get them to stand up straight. They’re quite light. The man I’ve bought them from the past two years looks as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders, his large frame sheathed in the workman’s jumpsuit—the tan fabric of the thing specked with the months and probably years of work it’s seen. His countenance is nothing short of severe; selling Christmas trees to the fathers and kids who come by is not joyful work for him. He and his elderly partner simply load the things into an old International truck with canvas flaps at the back that serve as doors, set the best ones out, leaning against the truck’s sides and its front, and wait for the December shoppers who come through the dark parking area under the expressway. I am just next to them with my French bread. I always seek this man out, bypass the more friendly and kindly-looking oldster who is paired with him. I explain my Christmas tree needs to him, he asks an unexpected question—like, “How tall?” His brow is furrowed, as if the answer may somehow shape world events. It’s a reasonable question, but one that takes me by surprise. I simply don’t care how tall the tree is, only want a couple of specimens that are weakly-looking and not good candidates for adoption. They must actually LOOK like trees—that is my only criteria. Once I’ve dressed them up, they’ll be just fine.
“Oh—I don’t care,” I say. They’re for the front porch, really. Don’t need to be tall at all.” I look at a row of smallish trees leaning over behind the main trees.
“A couple of these will do,” I say. “I’m looking to spend about twenty bucks.” I know I am being ultra-cheap, but also know that practically no one wants these little, misshapen trees. He gives me a pair of handsome and—to my eye—well-formed trees. One of them has branches that are kind of flattened against its sides.
“They’ll probably come out once it’s set up,” he says.
I don’t care one way or the other.
“Yes, they probably will,” I say.
This Sunday I’ll see if they want something from my stand: a French pastry or piece of bread—anything to make the time spent in that dreary place more tolerable.

One of the trees is up, its lights sparkling with different colors and a good few clear ones besides. It looks fine over at the right side of the front porch, just at the top of the steps where you go up to enter the house. I’ll put the other one on the left, to frame the entrance with these festive trees. I am using the lights I put on just one tree last year to cover these two little trees—so they may look a little more spare than usual. So far the one I’ve put up looks nice. If I have enough lights, I will use some scrap plywood to cut out the word “JOY” and cover the letters in lights. Then I’ll put it out somewhere near the trees—maybe in the middle. I am looking forward to this.

With all the tree activity and the rain, I’vd done nothing for the past few days on the house itself. The living room area has been turned into a Christmas workshop for trees.