Over one month had passed since my return. All work has been caught up, home-front and work force, all except that of the spirit of Christmas – I have not yet been able to live it or feel it despite of the help from TV commercials, radio carols and even all the Christmas parties. Losing 3 weeks had deprived me of the necessary course of migration to the climax of the year. The incurred damage is not only internal but also external, in that even our Christmas tree was not set up well after the Thanksgiving week.
The symptom seemed to be contagious within the family too. Even Luke, our Christmas child, exhibited little excitement for the holiday. A Christmas without his hope and dreams is no Christmas. It simply would not do. I decided to take remediation action: time to get the tree up! We had spent the whole Saturday raking leaves, leaving us Sunday afternoon the only time for mission of Christmas rescue. The designated tree man, though, was pressed with tasks of higher priority then, thus I became the inevitable substitute. I have not been known ever for want of energy and drive at calls of necessity. In fact, I am a firm believer of being the superior species in the claim of that there is nothing we, the child-bearers, cannot do. Putting up a Christmas tree is no exception. Like any other created, flawed creature, I am well aware of my own shortages, but my determination makes up for any possible deficiency – any but 2 things: sewing and gardening. Christmas tree may have the name of “tree”, but in our home it is 100% artificial, consequently 100% safe from my lack of green thumb.
I have wondered why and how I could have been born and raised by 2 parents with innate passion and skills for gardening and still became a walking nightmare in the company of nature. To say that I cannot garden is an understatement. If trees, shrubs and flowers have any say or votes, I would be in fact their worst enemy or predator without even trying. But the tree is made of plastic, so what harm could I possibly incur? That day was packed with actions: driving Luke to his final musical engagement, picking up a few items from stores and even bagging the last few piles of leaves in the chilly, windy weather. Finally I saved the best for the last. Standing in the middle of the great room with a box all duck-taped up, I stared at my “mission” still with little concern. The original tree assignee happened to be a methodical and patient worker. He had labeled and grouped all branches with precise order instruction on the box. I started pulling the piles of branches out and assembling them, feeling brave and invincible. The boom box was singing Christmas carols merrily, matching that of my jolly and carefree spirit. Life was good, and EASY. As I moved along, I noticed some branches hanging slightly too loose for my liking. I gave it a firmer push onto the supporting pole and just like that the pocket snapped and the branch came completely detached. My eyes and mouth dropped open. I could not believe this mishap – certainly this is NOT happening! But the evidence, the broken limb lying lifeless at my hands, was staring vacantly back at me. Nearly 20 years of age, safe and sound under the care of another hand, our Christmas tree broke at my first touch.
So everything went southbound from there. Gone was my gaiety, the Christmas cheer and of course the tree. My drive and zeal deflated, I wrapped up the rest of the mission hastily, abandoning the remaining task of lights and ornaments hanging. I could not even bare the sight of the post mortem. It was a pitiful scene of aftermath with plastic needles panickly scattered around. At 6pm past, the house was quiet and devoid of daylight and life, except that of the destroyer. I realized with a sinking heart that without a doubt the curse of brown thumb extended beyond the boundary of nature. I may be anything - resolute, industrious and spirited, but never the nurturing with a green thumb. It took a 20-year-old, plastic tree to teach me the lesson: the law of nature (literally this time) cannot be violated – not without a price.
2010 marks the year of me becoming the Christmas Grinch when I killed our Christmas Tree.
The symptom seemed to be contagious within the family too. Even Luke, our Christmas child, exhibited little excitement for the holiday. A Christmas without his hope and dreams is no Christmas. It simply would not do. I decided to take remediation action: time to get the tree up! We had spent the whole Saturday raking leaves, leaving us Sunday afternoon the only time for mission of Christmas rescue. The designated tree man, though, was pressed with tasks of higher priority then, thus I became the inevitable substitute. I have not been known ever for want of energy and drive at calls of necessity. In fact, I am a firm believer of being the superior species in the claim of that there is nothing we, the child-bearers, cannot do. Putting up a Christmas tree is no exception. Like any other created, flawed creature, I am well aware of my own shortages, but my determination makes up for any possible deficiency – any but 2 things: sewing and gardening. Christmas tree may have the name of “tree”, but in our home it is 100% artificial, consequently 100% safe from my lack of green thumb.
I have wondered why and how I could have been born and raised by 2 parents with innate passion and skills for gardening and still became a walking nightmare in the company of nature. To say that I cannot garden is an understatement. If trees, shrubs and flowers have any say or votes, I would be in fact their worst enemy or predator without even trying. But the tree is made of plastic, so what harm could I possibly incur? That day was packed with actions: driving Luke to his final musical engagement, picking up a few items from stores and even bagging the last few piles of leaves in the chilly, windy weather. Finally I saved the best for the last. Standing in the middle of the great room with a box all duck-taped up, I stared at my “mission” still with little concern. The original tree assignee happened to be a methodical and patient worker. He had labeled and grouped all branches with precise order instruction on the box. I started pulling the piles of branches out and assembling them, feeling brave and invincible. The boom box was singing Christmas carols merrily, matching that of my jolly and carefree spirit. Life was good, and EASY. As I moved along, I noticed some branches hanging slightly too loose for my liking. I gave it a firmer push onto the supporting pole and just like that the pocket snapped and the branch came completely detached. My eyes and mouth dropped open. I could not believe this mishap – certainly this is NOT happening! But the evidence, the broken limb lying lifeless at my hands, was staring vacantly back at me. Nearly 20 years of age, safe and sound under the care of another hand, our Christmas tree broke at my first touch.
So everything went southbound from there. Gone was my gaiety, the Christmas cheer and of course the tree. My drive and zeal deflated, I wrapped up the rest of the mission hastily, abandoning the remaining task of lights and ornaments hanging. I could not even bare the sight of the post mortem. It was a pitiful scene of aftermath with plastic needles panickly scattered around. At 6pm past, the house was quiet and devoid of daylight and life, except that of the destroyer. I realized with a sinking heart that without a doubt the curse of brown thumb extended beyond the boundary of nature. I may be anything - resolute, industrious and spirited, but never the nurturing with a green thumb. It took a 20-year-old, plastic tree to teach me the lesson: the law of nature (literally this time) cannot be violated – not without a price.
2010 marks the year of me becoming the Christmas Grinch when I killed our Christmas Tree.
No comments:
Post a Comment