And you asked me what I
want this year
And I'll try to make this
kind and clear
Just a chance that maybe
we'll find better days
The Goo Goo Dolls
Thanks to my friend Maria, a lot of
people have read about my embarrassing search for the perfect
Christmas tree.
It started long enough ago that the
particulars of how I came to write about the search for the perfect
tree are foggy, but I know Maria was the one who made me do it.
Whether it was because she was editing a particular Christmas
supplement for our newspapers and needed material, or because it was
easier than arguing with her about it anymore.
She's 5-feet tall, on a good day, if
you squint, and measure in meters. She's an Italian-American from
Brooklyn, NY, and... well... Let's just say she's feisty. She also
has a huge heart, is incredibly loyal, and, when it comes to loving
people, after my wife Sheri, my kids Jennifer, Alison, Kristie and
Jason, there's no one I love more.
Anyway... There was space to fill in
this special section and I put together a piece about my search for
the “perfect” tree. Maria thought it was hysterical and, in fact,
used it during more than one Christmas. I didn't think it was all
that funny, and that some of what people were responding to was the
fact that almost all of them had spent a similar amount of time
trying to find their perfect tree, probably with similar results.
The real problem with the search idea
was that I had actually found the perfect tree in the first one we
bought. Janice and I, who were married at the time, found it just
outside Geneseo, NY, where we were both trying to finish college. We
paid $5.00 for it, at a time when I was making $1.15 an hour working
part-time, and we were preparing for the arrival of our first
daughter in less than a month. We used the price tag as an ornament.
Perfect.
I don't know if that was pure luck, or
our standards were lower, but it was never that easy again.
In the interest of time, let me just
cut to the most horrible part- the hunting and foraging phase.
Someone decided it would be great to head into the woods to cut own
our own tree. I say someone, because I cannot imagine I thought this
was a good idea. I had a feeling that “we” would become “me”
once the terrain turned bad, sawing had to be done, and dragging was
brought into play.
So let me ask those of you who have
done, or still do, this. What's the biggest problem with the tree you
get? Right. It is waaaaay too big. No matter how hard you try, you
cannot get perspective when you are looking at one tree amid a
forest. I mean, it can be the smallest tree for miles around and
still be more appropriate for the town square than your living room.
This led to a number of years of Janice
turning up the Christmas music in the living room, while I cursed my
way through resizing numerous Christmas trees. A holly, jolly
Christmas indeed.
The hunting-foraging phase peaked the
year our younger daughter Alison and I went alone on a weekday
afternoon to get our perfect tree. I should note that, in terms of
snow, knee-deep is a relative term. What was knee-deep snow for me
was shoulder deep snow for Alison who was about two-and-a-half years
old. This meant carrying her for a ways, putting her down, going back
to drag the giant tree, then carrying her, then putting her down and
so on.
Well, as I'm sure you can imagine, that
got old pretty quick. Then my big brain kicked in. Alison was little,
the snow was solidly packed... so I simply dragged Alison across the
top of the snow with one arm while dragging the tree with the other.
It was perfect. Yes, she bounced a little bit now and then, and yes,
she did sink in a few times, but I just made a big deal about her
helping Daddy with the tree and, probably, told her Santa wouldn't
like it if she complained (or told her mother).
I know. I know. It's no wonder I have
trouble sleeping at night.
Once I was single again, and the kids
were with their mom most of the time, the pressure was off. I bought
an artificial tree, but had trouble getting it to stand up straight.
So I got a coffee can, filled it with cement, and stuck the tree in
the cement. Now that, brothers and sisters, was a perfect Christmas
tree.
So, you're probably wondering, what
does all of this have to do with my journey through cancer?
Everything, actually, because I'm not just a cancer sufferer. I'm
also the guy who dragged his young daughter across the snow when
looking for a Christmas tree; who saw cement as an important part of
the perfect tree[ and the guy who married the girl of his dreams.
I'm also the guy who has looked fear in
the eye and laughed (ha ha) and looked fear in the eye and curled up
in a ball and cried; who still tears up when he thinks of Samantha,
the beloved cat that he and Sheri had to put sleep last year but who,
a few weeks ago, was finally able to find a place amid the grief for
seven-month old MacKenzie who helps make every sorrow we have
right-sized.
I'm also the guy who can honestly say
that when it comes to my life... cancer is the least of it. As noted
in song by Emerson, Lake and Palmer: “Hallelujah, Noel, be it
heaven or hell, the Christmas we get we deserve.”
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere.”
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