A Scandalous Christmas

This morning at breakfast, as I sat eating fresh pineapple and looking out over Waikiki Beach with Diamond Head in the distance, an article in the The Honolulu Advertiser caught my eye.

Oahu, it seems, is experiencing a Christmas tree shortage. Hundreds of buyers got in line at 4 a.m. yesterday in hopes of snagging one of the trees being flown in at the last minute from Oregon.

For me, it brought back memories of the Great Christmas Tree Scandal of 1995.

In the late 1980s, my parents bought a condo on St. Augustine Beach, and they were there every chance they got. Of course, they always spent the week after Christmas at the beach, usually leaving the day after Christmas to get there.

From the time we kids first married and the issue of scheduling our holiday gatherings arose, Mom and Dad were always great about saying, “We want everyone together, but it doesn’t have to be Christmas Day or even Christmas Eve. Sometime in the week leading up to Christmas is perfectly fine with us.” Part of the reason, I think, was that preachers work on Christmas Eve. And if Christmas Day falls on a Sunday, they work on Christmas Day. Like most families, for the Adams, holiday flexibility is a matter of survival.

In 1995, though, we somehow managed to celebrate the Adams Family Christmas actually on Christmas Day at lunchtime. Mom and Dad were planning to leave for Florida after the celebration.

We loaded our children into the car and drove to Grammy’s house. Morgan was five years old, and Lauren was not quite two. As we pulled into their driveway, Morgan said in a horrified voice, “Why is their Christmas tree in the road?”

Their limp and lifeless and sad tree was already at the curb on Christmas Day, flecks of tinsel blowing off the tree and across their yard in the cold December wind. They never have, and never will, live it down.

This year, when it came time for me to decorate a tree, I understood how my parents felt. My artificial trees were ruined in the water heater flood back in September. Since I’m moving to Florida, I didn’t want to buy another artificial tree and then have to move it. But I didn’t exactly have a vehicle big enough to bring home a real tree.

I found a Christmas tree farm in North Carolina that would ship trees to my front door. I ordered a 6’ Fraser fir for the rec room and a 7’ one for the main level of the house. The trees arrived two days later, and Lauren helped me pull them from their boxes.

The 6’ tree was my height. And the 7’ tree wasn’t 7 feet tall. I grumbled, and Lauren laughed, but what were we going to do? Send them back?

After an hour of sawing off lower branches to get them into their stands, I was covered in needles and sap. I picked up the “6-foot” tree and made my fourth attempt to shove it into the stand. When it still didn’t fit, I began cursing and slamming the tree and stand against my newly-replaced hardwood floors while telling Santa where I wanted to put the trunk of that tree. Lauren’s eyes got big, and she said, “Mom, why don’t we take a break and go get some dinner?”

I went upstairs to grab a jacket and saw the 3x3 inspirational card I keep next to the mirror in my bathroom. It reads, “Attachment to the way things should be is the source of all your suffering.”

“Should” is a dangerous road. See, my family should be intact. My kids should all be home, and we should be decorating the tree together. I should be watching the man of the house wrangle with the artificial trees that never got ruined. My basement should never have flooded, and my beautiful house shouldn’t be on the market. “Should” is a recipe for misery.

So rather than sitting around and shoulding on myself, I’m in Honolulu to see Petras and Baptiste, the two boys from Europe who lived with us and are now a part of our family, play in a tournament in their last year of college. While Atlanta is enduring freezing rain, I’m sitting on Waikiki beach drinking a pina colada and listening to Bing Crosby sing “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.” I’ll be home on Christmas Eve to celebrate with my children, but because of scheduling difficulties, we won’t actually celebrate Christmas with my mom and dad and the rest of my family until the day after Christmas.

And since we’re leaving for St. Augustine after that celebration, my trees will be already down when all my nieces and nephews pull into my driveway.

They won’t be on the street, however. I’ve cut a deal with the guy selling trees in Honolulu. When I get home, I’m going to overnight him two slightly dry Fraser fir, and we’re going to split the profit. It will forever be known as the Great Christmas Tree Scandal of 2009.

Since that’s the way it is, that’s the way it should be. It should be a great Christmas.

An Open Letter to Those Who Crossed My Path Today . . .

To My Dachshunds: We’re moving to Florida today. Although your brains are the size of walnuts, I have to give you credit for the incredible intelligence you’ve shown in choosing to move with me. Trust me, Benadryl will help you sleep comfortably during the drive to St. Augustine. And for your future entertainment, the new invisible fence is configured so that the UPS guy will have to get by you to reach the front porch.

To L’Donna in the fancy fuschia Cadillac: Your car is lovely, and I’m envious of the vanity plate with your name on it, but I feel compelled to tell you that driving 80 miles per hour on I-75 while scratching your braids with those 3” nails and talking on the cell phone leaves no hands on the steering wheel.

To My Children: I love you. I stayed married to your dad when I knew he was cheating on me because I didn’t want to break up your home. In the years since the divorce, I’ve tried to keep as many things in your life the same as always. But as much as I try, I can’t live in your father’s path. I’m afraid for my health if I don’t get out of his orbit. It breaks my heart that you’ve chosen to live with him, but I understand that you want to avoid change. All you need to know is that the day you call and tell me you want to come live with me, I’ll be in the car on my way to get you.

To the Rednecks in the jacked-up F-350: Today’s race is at the Atlanta Motor Speedway in Hampton, not on I-75.

To the Woman in the Hyundai Santa Fe: Violently yanking your steering wheel while trying to change lanes at 90 miles per hour is what’s causing your SUV to careen onto two wheels. Ease into those lane changes, sweetie, and you won’t flip that damn piece of aluminum.

To the Woman at the Chick-Fil-A- in Tifton: Asking for five orders of bacon at a crowded fast food restaurant is not going to win you any friends. And saying to the sweet teenager waiting on you, “I want five orders of bacon, and don’t interrupt me until I finish giving you my order,” made me want to yank all the hairs off of your head. Here’s the problem: Chick-Fil-A doesn’t have “orders of bacon” on its menu. They cook bacon for their Club Sandwiches. Buy five sandwiches and take the bacon out of them if you must have bacon. You want only bacon? Marry a pig. Chick-Fil-A doesn’t have someone in the back cooking bacon just for some nitwit on the Atkins Diet.

To the Teenager Who Ran His Car off I-10 into a Swamp: Can you please talk to the lady in the Hyundai? She’s about to do what you just did.

To My Ex-Husband: I kind of understand your wanting a younger, tighter, stupider woman. She makes you look smarter and wealthier. I also kind of understand your hiding money in Costa Rica so that you don’t have to pay me the settlement I deserve. But here’s what I don’t understand: you got what you wanted, so why can’t you leave me alone now? Why do you torture and harass me more than two years after the divorce was final? You remind me of the woman in Chick-Fil-A today, someone with irrational and unreasonable ideas of how other people should accommodate you. Here’s the deal, you stupid man: I have bacon. And it’s good bacon. But you can’t have it, not at any price. It’s going to someone who wants the whole club sandwich, someone who will appreciate the value of a combo meal. Someone who doesn’t ask for the bacon in exchange for a little sausage.

To the Dachshunds: I told the UPS guy you can be bought with bacon.