Dear Mom and Dad,
I think Jonesie was possessed when he put the lights on our tree.
I suspected something was wrong when it took him so long to do it. And there were all those trips to the store for more lights. But I thought he was possessed by ambition, a burning, inexplicable desire to light up the neighborhood more than our neighbors. In fact, that basic, human competitive urge.
He keeps forgetting that we are the Joneses. We don't have to keep up with the neighbors. They are supposed to keep up with us.
Being nice people, we make it easy. We don't mow our lawn twice a week or clearn out the gunk between the cracks in our sidewalk. We never put up Christmas before Thanksgiving, send out cards out on December 1st or go nuts with lights.
Until this year.
I guess I shouldn't have left him alone with the tree. In my own defense, I can only say that I thought it was an artificial tree and harmless. And it was beautiful, glittering and twinkling with its sixteen strands of lights. Jonesie video taped it for a full fifteen minutes while we listened to carols and swayed from side to side like the Who's of Whoville. It was magical.
Then it came time to take it down. That's when I learned the awful truth: the tree had a dark soul. I could tell you the spot on the tree where it took over the placement of the lights from Jonesie, though I didn't know it until we started to take it down.
Placement was orderly and logical in the lower section of the tree, but quickly turned erratic and manically tangled as the approach the summit. I could see the effect time and multiple trips to the store had on his ability to place the lights. At one point, it seems he began spinning the tree to speed up the process.
Taking it apart was like a living puzzle or a maze with no solution. Green cords were woven in a serpentine, tortuous mass that was cleverly concealed by the artificial branches. After a time, though, it became clear that all cords lead to the Center, the pole, the black heart of that tree.
When the tree defeated our first attempt to de-light it, we decided to take the tree apart, then go to work on the lights, but were quickly foiled by the fact that the cords were wrapped up and down, virtually tying all parts of the tree together in a knot that would make a Boy Scout cry.
We fought. We wrestled, we tugged, we muttered (and possibly cursed) for over four hours before we finally managed to separate lights from tree. When the tree was dismantled and back in the box, Jonesie sat on it while I taped it shut.
Exhausted and panting, I sat down next to Jonesie and said, "Let's not every do that again, okay?"
Jonesie was quiet for a moment. Manlike, he didn't want to appear craven. He looked at me. Sighed and then said, "Okay."
We got up. He hoisted the box to his shoulder and headed for the garage. I should have been reassured, but as he turned away from me, I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes that left me feeling a bit unsettled. Was it a hint of green? Or the light of battle?
Note to myself: keep a close eye on Jonesie next Christmas.
love,
pj
© 1992 Pauline Baird Jones All rights reserved.
(A version of this column appeared in The Lovell Chronicle 1/30/1992).