C is for Christmas Tree
What? Did you think C would be for Cats? Of course. Tonia is going to do a blog about cats. Nah, I can always talk about cats. In fact, I do! For this blog I decided to tell another Tony Brown story. I know you guy never get tired of them, and it’s a strange kind of therapy for me to let them out.
So here we go.
Every year we put up a live Christmas tree. Sure, we are pagans, but so is the Christmas tree. (I could say Yule tree, but firstly it’s a Christmas tree, and secondly the letter Y is weeks away.) We also drag our heels taking the tree down. Usually we have it down by the end of January. Usually. Sometimes we take it down around Valentine’s day. Sometimes. On occasion, it stays up a bit longer.
This particular year, oh say about fifteen or more years ago, the tree stayed up for a bit longer. I think it was, and don’t be too judgmental when I say this, I think it was around May when we finally took the decorations off of the tree and moved it outside. Trouble was, we had long since stop watering the thing. It was brown and old and drier than a batch of week old cornbread. This resulted in a peculiar problem; we couldn’t get the lights off of it. We got all of the decorations off, but the lights stayed on the tree. So, lights and all, we chucked it into the yard and then eventually put it behind the shed out back. The idea was to take it to the dump later. Later. Later. I don’t think later ever comes with us. This is nothing new.
The next year we had a great tree. It was very full and green. The thing was about six feet tall and huge. It was a good tree for a good year. Remembering the light debacle from the year before, I managed to get all of the things off of the tree and was ready to get rid of it the first week of January. Tony decided he didn’t just want to toss it into the yard and then drag it off to the dump later. Or rather never. He decided that this would be the year he would burn the tree. After this year, he said, he would burn all of the trees. This didn’t happen, and here is why.
Tony, along with our friends Watson and Blankenship (yes, we used the guys’ last names, because they are both named Eric!) dragged the tree out to our newly dug fire pit only to learn that the tree was way too big to place inside. Instead he left it in its holder, upright, as if it were still in the house. I was of the opinion that the tree wouldn’t burn because it was still too green. Tony and the guys agreed. That’s when he made his first suicidal suggestion.
“We should soak it in gasoline.”
And he did. Against my will. I repeat, against my will. He got the lawnmower can of gas and proceeded to pour what was left of the thing all over the six foot tall, several foot around perfectly green Christmas tree. But this still wasn’t enough for Tony Brown. No. He stood back, shook his head and then made his second suicidal suggestion.
“It needs more kindling. I am going to use the other tree.”
Wait, what other tree? Remember the one from last year? The old skinny, brown, needles nearly gone but still had the lights on it tree? That’s the one. Tony fetch it from its place of honor out behind the shed, brought it to the fire pit and proceeded to thread it, crosswise, into the bulk of the first now soaked in gasoline tree. I took a step back, then a few more steps, all the way to the top of the little rise that led down to our fire pit area. I thought about protesting louder than I already was, but my voice couldn’t go any higher and my words couldn’t get any louder without a megaphone and a dose of helium. So I hemmed and hawed until I was blue in the face, but he kept on keepin’ on, lighting a match, and flinging it into the fire pit.
Two things happened at once.
My life flashed before my eyes. It was a good life so no complaints there.
The world turned red and orange and blue as the tree caught life with the fires of Hell itself. The flames exhaled an enormous gust of breath toward me, blowing my hair back in a whipping wind of heated air. (Remember, I was several yards away at the top of the hill, the guys were standing right next to the damnable thing.) My eyes watered. My body tensed. And the world burned.
The men let out a primal whoop, which I would’ve done had I not been concerned about the mushroom cloud now rising from the nuclear disaster of a tree burning in my backyard! The whooping came to a quick end when the men realized the level of danger, as fingers of fire started to creep out of the fire pit and catch patches of grass ablaze. They stomped and kicked and did their best to put out the little fires. In the end they did good, making sure the flames didn’t reach the house. Meanwhile I looked to the heavens for help. I saw something that only confirmed how idiotic the plan really was.
The few pecans left hanging on the tree above me were smoking. They had roasted in the shells right there on the branches.
In this fire induced magic, my mouth became the megaphone I lacked earlier and my ranting reached full helium levels of high pitched squeals. “Why are you guys loving this so much! That fire could’ve burned our house down!”
“Don’t be silly, my love,” Tony said. He always calls me his love. In eighteen years I think I have only heard my name a few times from his mouth. “Don’t be silly, my love. There is no way that would’ve burned the house down.” He patted my hand for good measure. Then he nodded to the huge--and not to mention full of gas--tank standing in the back yard, and said his third suicidal thing.
“It wouldn’t have caught the house on fire, because by the time the flames reached that gas tank, it would’ve exploded and blown the house away instead.”
Somewhere in the background I heard the soft pop of Christmas lights succumbing to the heat.
Thus is my life with Tony Brown. It might be dangerous at times, but it is never dull.
So here we go.
Every year we put up a live Christmas tree. Sure, we are pagans, but so is the Christmas tree. (I could say Yule tree, but firstly it’s a Christmas tree, and secondly the letter Y is weeks away.) We also drag our heels taking the tree down. Usually we have it down by the end of January. Usually. Sometimes we take it down around Valentine’s day. Sometimes. On occasion, it stays up a bit longer.
This particular year, oh say about fifteen or more years ago, the tree stayed up for a bit longer. I think it was, and don’t be too judgmental when I say this, I think it was around May when we finally took the decorations off of the tree and moved it outside. Trouble was, we had long since stop watering the thing. It was brown and old and drier than a batch of week old cornbread. This resulted in a peculiar problem; we couldn’t get the lights off of it. We got all of the decorations off, but the lights stayed on the tree. So, lights and all, we chucked it into the yard and then eventually put it behind the shed out back. The idea was to take it to the dump later. Later. Later. I don’t think later ever comes with us. This is nothing new.
The next year we had a great tree. It was very full and green. The thing was about six feet tall and huge. It was a good tree for a good year. Remembering the light debacle from the year before, I managed to get all of the things off of the tree and was ready to get rid of it the first week of January. Tony decided he didn’t just want to toss it into the yard and then drag it off to the dump later. Or rather never. He decided that this would be the year he would burn the tree. After this year, he said, he would burn all of the trees. This didn’t happen, and here is why.
Tony, along with our friends Watson and Blankenship (yes, we used the guys’ last names, because they are both named Eric!) dragged the tree out to our newly dug fire pit only to learn that the tree was way too big to place inside. Instead he left it in its holder, upright, as if it were still in the house. I was of the opinion that the tree wouldn’t burn because it was still too green. Tony and the guys agreed. That’s when he made his first suicidal suggestion.
“We should soak it in gasoline.”
And he did. Against my will. I repeat, against my will. He got the lawnmower can of gas and proceeded to pour what was left of the thing all over the six foot tall, several foot around perfectly green Christmas tree. But this still wasn’t enough for Tony Brown. No. He stood back, shook his head and then made his second suicidal suggestion.
“It needs more kindling. I am going to use the other tree.”
Wait, what other tree? Remember the one from last year? The old skinny, brown, needles nearly gone but still had the lights on it tree? That’s the one. Tony fetch it from its place of honor out behind the shed, brought it to the fire pit and proceeded to thread it, crosswise, into the bulk of the first now soaked in gasoline tree. I took a step back, then a few more steps, all the way to the top of the little rise that led down to our fire pit area. I thought about protesting louder than I already was, but my voice couldn’t go any higher and my words couldn’t get any louder without a megaphone and a dose of helium. So I hemmed and hawed until I was blue in the face, but he kept on keepin’ on, lighting a match, and flinging it into the fire pit.
Two things happened at once.
My life flashed before my eyes. It was a good life so no complaints there.
The world turned red and orange and blue as the tree caught life with the fires of Hell itself. The flames exhaled an enormous gust of breath toward me, blowing my hair back in a whipping wind of heated air. (Remember, I was several yards away at the top of the hill, the guys were standing right next to the damnable thing.) My eyes watered. My body tensed. And the world burned.
The men let out a primal whoop, which I would’ve done had I not been concerned about the mushroom cloud now rising from the nuclear disaster of a tree burning in my backyard! The whooping came to a quick end when the men realized the level of danger, as fingers of fire started to creep out of the fire pit and catch patches of grass ablaze. They stomped and kicked and did their best to put out the little fires. In the end they did good, making sure the flames didn’t reach the house. Meanwhile I looked to the heavens for help. I saw something that only confirmed how idiotic the plan really was.
The few pecans left hanging on the tree above me were smoking. They had roasted in the shells right there on the branches.
In this fire induced magic, my mouth became the megaphone I lacked earlier and my ranting reached full helium levels of high pitched squeals. “Why are you guys loving this so much! That fire could’ve burned our house down!”
“Don’t be silly, my love,” Tony said. He always calls me his love. In eighteen years I think I have only heard my name a few times from his mouth. “Don’t be silly, my love. There is no way that would’ve burned the house down.” He patted my hand for good measure. Then he nodded to the huge--and not to mention full of gas--tank standing in the back yard, and said his third suicidal thing.
“It wouldn’t have caught the house on fire, because by the time the flames reached that gas tank, it would’ve exploded and blown the house away instead.”
Somewhere in the background I heard the soft pop of Christmas lights succumbing to the heat.
Thus is my life with Tony Brown. It might be dangerous at times, but it is never dull.
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