Pappy’s Tree
It started out innocently enough. At the suggestion of my life-long best friend, Eddie, and his wife Sue, Rene’ and I agreed to try out Jim Pappas’ Christmas tree lot on Morris Thomas Road in Duluth. I grew up with a couple of Jim’s kids. Ann and Andy Pappas were classmates of mine at Piedmont Elementary School. Jim was my first scoutmaster at Troop 67 located in the old Piedmont Community Center. Both the troop and the center are long gone. But I discovered, as Rene’ and I searched for Pappy’s Trees on a below zero winter’s Saturday night, our 19-month-old grandson A.J. in tow, our bellies full of Bridgeman’s burgers and malts, that Jim and his wife hadn’t left the old homestead. (Did I mention that the Piedmont Elementary School I went from kindergarten to 6th grade with the Pappas kids is also long gone, replaced by a gleaming new building?). Anyway, when we spotted the sign “Pappy’s Trees” tacked onto a post, we knew we were at the right place. Rene’ got out of her car. I climbed in the driver’s seat to keep A.J., who was safely tucked in his car seat in the rear, company. I left my Pacifica idling and watched as Rene’ studied rows of trees leaning against 2×4 frames, the evergreens bound in plastic mesh, an orchestra of floodlights illuminating Pappy’s front yard. Through the windshield of my wife’s Matrix I watched my wife. After five minutes or so of scrutiny (you keep a marriage going for 35 years by yielding certain tasks to your partner. I am not the guy you want picking out the family Christmas tree!), I watched Rene’ approach the front door, knock, and engage in a brief conversation with a familiar looking old man.
“I found one,” my wife said upon her return.
“Which one?”
“The last one in the last row. I’ll take A.J. home if you pay for the tree and load it into your car.”
“OK. I wanted to say ‘hello’ to my old scoutmaster anyway.”
I had a pleasant few minutes talking to Jim Pappas, the first conversation we’ve shared since the 1970s. Quite frankly, he hadn’t changed much. He was still diminutive and sinewy in stature, spoke with a slight stutter, and had a marvelous twinkle in his eyes. At 86, he’s still cutting and selling trees to neighbors, an impressive feat for someone half his age. After catching up on family news, I said my goodbyes, lugged the tree to the back of my van, opened the tailgate, rolled the balsam into the cargo area, closed the hatch, and roared off into the night.
Normally, we watch It’s a Wonderful Life as we decorate our Christmas tree. Because the tree was so cold, we let it sit a day to allow the bows to descend. Sunday evening, Jack lugged bins of ornaments and lights up from the basement. I sawed the base of the tree. The three of us, with minimal curse words, got the balsam secured in the tree stand. Rene’ looped lights around the conifer’s girth. The two of us set about placing ornaments on the springy branches of the tree. We watched a forgettable Christmas movie on Hallmark as we worked. George Bailey’s story of redemption would have to wait for another night.
Pappy’s tree did well for two weeks. The only minor difficulty was that both Kena (pronounced Keena), our energetic Labrador pup, and Jimi, our severely paranoid miniature Dachshund, discovered the water in the tree stand and decided it was their own personal watering trough. Try as we might, the humans in the house were unable to keep the dogs away from the tree. Finally, tired of drying out the tree skirt because of the dogs’ shenanigans, Rene’ left the skirt partially open as an accommodation. Things seemed to be going smoothly. Pappy’s Tree had acquitted itself quite nicely.
Yesterday morning. I woke to the radio at 5:00am, my normal routine on a work day. I generally spend an hour to an hour and a half working on my writing. Every other morning, I follow the writing up with exercise. I’m a religious patron of “Body Electric” on PBS. I’ve been working out with Margaret Richards for over twenty years. She hasn’t aged a bit (the ageless magic of re-runs) but I certainly have. Anyway, in the midst of neck stretches, I yelled down to Jack to get him up and into the shower for school. Rene’ had already showered, dressed for work, and was in the kitchen sipping coffee as the credits rolled on “Body Electric”. Kena had eaten her breakfast. Jimi had gorged on water I put out to dissuade the dogs from drinking from the tree stand. I clambered up to the master bath and was seated on my throne surveying my kingdom with Kindle in hand, finishing another, more delicate, portion of my morning ritual and reading Under Two Flags, when my sanctuary was disturbed.
“Mark, get down here!” Rene’ yelled. “Kena knocked over the tree!”
It took some doing but I eventually arrived on scene. There was Pappy’s Tree toppled into the couch, ornaments scattered, some broken, some not, lights still blazing, my wife standing over the mess in perplexed anger.
I wasn’t in the mood to be righting a Christmas tree in my boxers. Words were exchanged. Threats were uttered regarding Kena’s demise. Jack vamoosed to his bedroom.
Long story short. We managed to tilt the tree back into something akin to straight.
“We can deal with the mess tonight,” I said to the back of my wife’s head as she left the house. Things had started to calm down when I discovered that Jimi had puked up all the water he’d ingested, leaving a nice pool of water, stomach acid, and yesterday’s kibble on the hardwood floor.
“Shit,” I cried out as the door shut. “The damn dog puked on the floor.”
There was no response from my departing wife or my secretive son.
I muttered some more bad words and proceeded to clean up the vomit with paper towel. As I walked into the kitchen to toss the mess into the garbage, I found another surprise.
“Shit,” I repeated. “The damn dog puked on the carpet.”
This time, my cursing had an audience. Jack was eating his cereal at the kitchen counter when I made my second discovery. Wisely, Jack made no response.
My son finished breakfast and padded back to his room to dress for school. I pulled out the carpet cleaner, a bucket of hot water, a rag, and commenced to clean up another puddle of puke. For good measure, I moved an arm chair and foot stool, got out the Dyson, and sucked up what needles I could from the great tree disaster of 2013. Being OCD, I’d normally try to get the entire great room shipshape before leaving but Jack was already late for school and I still hadn’t taken my morning shower. I left the vacuum in the middle of the carpeting, confident that the stains from Jimi’s indigestion had been bested.
Speaking of Jimi, I’d tossed both him and Kena outside after Rene’ witnessed the toppling of Pappy’s Tree. As I moved towards the stairs to the upper level to take my long-delayed shower, Jimi scratched at the front door. I stepped from hardwood onto a rug near the front entry intending to let the dog in. I was wearing socks and I stepped right into a pile of dog shit.
More bad words were said. I didn’t kill the wiener dog (the deposit was clearly his) though I was sorely tempted to end his miserable little life. I muttered more epithets as I peeled my shit-covered-sock off my foot. If Jack heard the cursing, he ignored it. I left Jimi outside and began to clean another mess.
As you can tell from the above photo, which was taken after Rene’ repositioned the tree ornaments and lights later that same night, all is once again well with Pappy’s Tree.
At least until Kena gets thirsty.
Merry Christmas.
Mark
