I’m a sucker for the
Christmas season. Always have been. Don’t know if it’s the deluded optimism the
holiday thrusts upon us, or just a strange affinity for otherwise maudlin songs
dressed up as cheerful seasonal chestnuts. I mean, let’s be honest, at any
other time of year, who would actually listen wistfully to a yawner like “The
Little Drummer Boy”?
Whatever it is, I have always ensured that my family gets into the holiday spirit, starting with finding the perfect Christmas tree.
When I was a kid, the search for the ultimate yuletide tree took us to the nearest gas station: hardly a romantic venue from which to choose the centerpiece of our holiday decor. We’d pile into the station wagon for the three-block drive to Buck’s Esso station, spill out onto the oil-slicked parking lot, mull over three or four already-netted spruce trees, and then dad would haggle down the price. End of story.
Ah, so I was determined to rewrite that tradition with my own family. Early in my marriage, we decided the most festive tree-acquisition could only be achieved by cutting down our own (plus you get the added benefit of the needles actually staying on the tree all month rather than littering the floor). Because we lived in citified Northern Virginia, the cachet of escaping to the “country”--i.e. the closest remaining patch of farmland untainted by greedy developers--only added to the allure.
But one year, I found myself almost wishing for the chance to just pop down to the local gas station to buy a tree…
That year, my husband and our three children, all under the age of four, trekked to the Clifton Christmas Tree Farm, where awaiting us were candy canes, hot chocolate, homemade wreaths and the typical abundance of forced holiday cheer that we craved.
I had whipped my kids into a tree-chopping frenzy, and so they took their task quite seriously. For forty minutes, we foraged throughout the whopping half-acre “farm” until we found the perfect tree: seven feet of holiday splendor, as wide as it was tall, perfect to fill our cathedral-ceiling’ed living room and flood us with the Christmas spirit.
The kids took turns on the ground with the saw while my husband supervised the chopping honors. Their excitement was palpable. We dragged the tree back to the cashier stand where the farmer’s son coiled the netting around our white pine. The kids stood by, sucking on candy canes, sipping hot cider and petting the farmer’s dog, who’d recently wandered over. I was just about to retrieve the car to load on the tree, when Fido lifted his leg.
“No!” I shouted in what seemed like a frame-by-frame slow motion, as a steady stream was released onto our perfect tree.
For a moment we stood stupefied, not knowing what to do. But we weren’t about to keep a tree covered in dog wee, so we grabbed the kids’ hands to head back into the wilds to hunt for a replacement one.
Until our kids let us know in no uncertain terms, that this tree was the one, the only. They threw themselves on the ground, flailing and crying, thrashing and moaning, like something from a Greek tragedy. They wanted their special tree, and nothing else would suffice.
Their wails did not subside until we relented, and agreed to load up the tainted tree.
The farmer found a makeshift bucket, filled it from a nearby stream and doused the offending urine from the tree. We loaded it onto the roof of the car, and went home.
I have admit, I sort of detached emotionally from the tree that year. Couldn’t quite get over the psychological hurdle of having a tree the dog peed on in my living room. Somehow it clashed with the whole festive notion.
But for my kids, the tree was just about perfect, despite its incumbent flaws. And maybe that’s exactly why I like the holidays so much: because at this time of year, we’re all a little more likely to forgive the small things in order to see the bigger picture.
Whatever it is, I have always ensured that my family gets into the holiday spirit, starting with finding the perfect Christmas tree.
When I was a kid, the search for the ultimate yuletide tree took us to the nearest gas station: hardly a romantic venue from which to choose the centerpiece of our holiday decor. We’d pile into the station wagon for the three-block drive to Buck’s Esso station, spill out onto the oil-slicked parking lot, mull over three or four already-netted spruce trees, and then dad would haggle down the price. End of story.
Ah, so I was determined to rewrite that tradition with my own family. Early in my marriage, we decided the most festive tree-acquisition could only be achieved by cutting down our own (plus you get the added benefit of the needles actually staying on the tree all month rather than littering the floor). Because we lived in citified Northern Virginia, the cachet of escaping to the “country”--i.e. the closest remaining patch of farmland untainted by greedy developers--only added to the allure.
But one year, I found myself almost wishing for the chance to just pop down to the local gas station to buy a tree…
That year, my husband and our three children, all under the age of four, trekked to the Clifton Christmas Tree Farm, where awaiting us were candy canes, hot chocolate, homemade wreaths and the typical abundance of forced holiday cheer that we craved.
I had whipped my kids into a tree-chopping frenzy, and so they took their task quite seriously. For forty minutes, we foraged throughout the whopping half-acre “farm” until we found the perfect tree: seven feet of holiday splendor, as wide as it was tall, perfect to fill our cathedral-ceiling’ed living room and flood us with the Christmas spirit.
The kids took turns on the ground with the saw while my husband supervised the chopping honors. Their excitement was palpable. We dragged the tree back to the cashier stand where the farmer’s son coiled the netting around our white pine. The kids stood by, sucking on candy canes, sipping hot cider and petting the farmer’s dog, who’d recently wandered over. I was just about to retrieve the car to load on the tree, when Fido lifted his leg.
“No!” I shouted in what seemed like a frame-by-frame slow motion, as a steady stream was released onto our perfect tree.
For a moment we stood stupefied, not knowing what to do. But we weren’t about to keep a tree covered in dog wee, so we grabbed the kids’ hands to head back into the wilds to hunt for a replacement one.
Until our kids let us know in no uncertain terms, that this tree was the one, the only. They threw themselves on the ground, flailing and crying, thrashing and moaning, like something from a Greek tragedy. They wanted their special tree, and nothing else would suffice.
Their wails did not subside until we relented, and agreed to load up the tainted tree.
The farmer found a makeshift bucket, filled it from a nearby stream and doused the offending urine from the tree. We loaded it onto the roof of the car, and went home.
I have admit, I sort of detached emotionally from the tree that year. Couldn’t quite get over the psychological hurdle of having a tree the dog peed on in my living room. Somehow it clashed with the whole festive notion.
But for my kids, the tree was just about perfect, despite its incumbent flaws. And maybe that’s exactly why I like the holidays so much: because at this time of year, we’re all a little more likely to forgive the small things in order to see the bigger picture.
A few housekeeping notes to catch you up on what I've been working on...
I just got the rights back to my parrot memoir, seen way below in it's original incarnation as Winging It: A Memoir of Caring for a Vengeful Parrot Who's Determined to Kill Me.
I've always wanted to offer this as an affordable ebook, since my publisher charged a crazy amount for it the whole time they had the rights. So I changed the title to Bite Me: A Parrot, A Family and a Whole Lot of Flesh Wounds, and the cover, and it's now a reasonable $2.99, so I hope you'll check it out if you've not before. Here's the new cover:
He's a prince with a problem. She's a commoner with a getaway plan…
Modern-day
Prince Adrian of Monaforte has a most old-fashioned problem: his demanding
mother wants him wed to her best friend’s daughter, the hard-partying Serena.
When his refusal falls on deaf ears, Adrian decides it’s time for him to slip
away from his gilded cage and figure out his life, all on his own. As luck
would have it, event photographer Emma Davison, weary of a revolving door of
lost-cause men and tired of her outsider-looking-in career, is in need of her own
escape clause, just in time to help a wayward prince in need. And she soon
discovers that sometimes a girl’s gotta sweep a prince off his feet.
For any girl that’s ever held out hope
that some day her prince would come…or better yet, hoped that some day she’d
come to him.
It’s all fun
and royal games until somebody’s heart gets broken
In his line of
work, royal heir Darcy Squires-Thornton has always been content playing second
fiddle to close friend Prince Adrian, and happy, too, with whatever brief
romantic encounters come his way. Especially one with carefree Caroline
McKenzie, whose best friend is engaged to the prince. Fun-loving Caroline
McKenzie's motto has always been "love the one you're with". But when
the one she's no longer with is the one with whom she's fallen in love, what's
a girl an ocean away to do?
Sometimes you can let your heir down a
little too much…
When
wild-child Prince Alexander goes on a naked bender in a Vegas swimming pool,
cocktail waitress Andi McDonough decides to preserve a shot of those family
jewels on her phone. But when she’s fired for capturing the royal treasures,
she heads off to find herself. After backpacking the world-over on a dime and a
prayer, she finds herself in Rome, where a chance encounter with the wayward
prince only reinforces to her that Prince Zander is indeed bad to the throne.
And more than likely to her fragile heart as well.
Thanks and Happy Holidays everyone!
Accidentally on Purpose (written as Erin Delany)
Compromising Positions (written as Erin Delany)
I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in this Relationship (I'm a contributor)
And these shorts:
Idol Worship: A Lost Week with the Weirdos and Wannabes at American Idol Auditions
Idol Worship: A Lost Week with the Weirdos and Wannabes at American Idol Auditions
1 comment:
lolol thanks for the laugh! Merry Christmas!
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