One day last week, I wrestled with a giant green porcupine. I almost lost.
The “porcupine” was the artificial Christmas tree I bought years ago, the one that never gave me any trouble – until the day it darned near killed me.
At first, the assembly process went well – no injuries – except for some trouble with the bottom pole in the tree-stand. I had to shove a wash rag in there to make it tight.
The tree stood in the middle of the living room, ready to be decorated. Next-door neighbor Marty agreed to help me. She has an amazing knack for Christmas-decorating. We put the five strings of lights on the tree, going round and round in a kind of dizzying two-step.
Minutes later, the tree – all seven feet of it – turned ugly as it morphed into a porcupine crossed with a mule. I had to get down on my belly like a living-room lizard – fat and flat – to scoot the tree by its stand to its intended position by the wall. Its branch wires kept poking me in the face.
“Ouch!” That was just one of the words I kept shouting; the others were more colorful than a strand of tree lights.
“Dennis, take your time!” Marty advised. “You’re going to have a heart attack.”
Sure enough, I almost did have a coronary after I struggled to my feet, stood back wobbily and beheld that varmint. It was as crooked as Donald Trump, and its top was stuck on the ceiling where the ceiling slants down to the windows – way too far from the wall. Then it dawned on me: The pole I’d crammed into the stand did not go all the way down into the tube because of that dumb wash rag I’d used.
“Oops,” Marty said.
I was about to shout “Bah! Humbug!” and rip the tree apart. I let out a howl of outrage. The dogs, Skippy and Daisy, quickly retreated, shivering with fright as they watched, ears drooping, from behind the chairs.
“Now, calm down,,” Marty cautioned. “There must be a way to fix it.”
“Yes, there is!” I said, leaving the room to get my snip pliers. I returned, climbed the step-stool and started snipping away top mini-branches after taking off the star. It was a frantic effort to make the fiend shorter to fit against the wall.
“Arrgh!” I shouted in pain as the wires kept stabbing my hands. “This %&**# tree!”
“Dennis, don’t get so worked up,” Marty said. “Swearing’s not going to help.”
Nor did all the snipping. The pesky contraption just stood there – stubborn, stuck, hopeless – as so did we.
In a sudden burst of energy, I had an idea, even though I try to avoid energetic ideas because they usually lead to injuries.
“Marty, I’m going to tip the tree, and you hold it,” I said. “I’m going to bang the stand off, remove the wash rag and pound the pole all the way down into it.”
After I tilted the tree into Marty’s arms, I scrunched down and pounded away with rubber mallet at the stand to get it off. I heard a whimpering sound.
“I can’t hold it anymore,” Marty said in a panic. “Too heavy!”
I quickly grabbed a chair and forced it into the thrashing critter.
Poor Marty, who is a short woman to begin with, looked like a sudden hunchback, as if some of her discs had slipped.
“Are you OK? You OK?”
“No,” she said.
As I kept wrestling with that green commotion, it decided to do a thrashing tango with me before I clumsily danced it into submission. Then it lost many of its branches, which had to be re-attached with patience – something I sorely lacked by that time.
Finally, after more huffing and puffing, what a relief, it fit right where it’s supposed to be.
Marty and I, breathless, stood there trying to smile. The dogs warily emerged from hiding, giving us hopeful looks.
But then, wouldn’t you know? I couldn’t find the dangling plug-in to put in the wall socket.
“It’s got to be down there somewhere!” Marty said.
“Yeah, but where? If you see it running off, let me know,” I said.
Just then Marty’s husband walked in the door, wondering if we needed help. Oh, boy, did we ever. When he saw our sweaty looks of frustration, he turned on his heels and ran out the door, no doubt thinking, “Beyond help!”
After taking the bottom strand off, we found the plug-in. I was sure when I stuck it in the socket, nothing would happen. I could just hear the cruel trickster laughing, “Ha, ha, HA!”
But, lo and behold, voila! Lights blazed forth. Prettiest Christmas tree I ever did see. Wheezily, we hooted approval, giving feeble high fives. Even the dogs seemed to smile, tails wagging (time for treats?). The nasty porcupine had been tamed, put in its place, and it was ready – once again – for a Merry Christmas.
