Uncle Albert’s Christmas Tree

The city’s gritty angles were softened and cleansed by its cover of fresh snow. In a worn down part of the city, lived in by worn down people, Uncle Albert was looking out his kitchen window at the snow mounded against and on top of his backyard fence and at the once naked oak tree, now covered in it’s new cloak of white. Without turning around he spoke to his wife, who was attacking with a determined ferocity the dirt on the dishes in the sink, “Mabel, it looks just like a picture on a Christmas card out there. All cottony and soft.” After another minute of reflection on the Christmas card picture in his yard Uncle Albert said, “Mind you, the dog’s yellow piss holes in the snow kind of takes something away from it.”

He sighed and turned to look at the calendar on the wall - the one with the smiling, saucy looking girl, holding a wrench, wearing tight mechanic’s overalls, and looking over her shoulder straight at you with the bluest eyes you ever saw.

Beneath the saucy mechanic the month of December was showing. Twenty-two of its days had been crossed out by Uncle Albert’s legacy to the world, his children; namely Horace, Wilfred, Leonard and Nellie, ages seven through ten. It’s unreported what the world thought about being left with this legacy. The year printed on the calendar was 1931.

After staring at the calendar for a few more minutes Uncle Albert said, “We can’t have Christmas without a Christmas tree. The kids have to have something.”

It is not known for a certainty if Uncle Albert was talking to the pretty mechanic on the calendar, or to Aunt Mabel. In any event it was Aunt Mabel who answered back, “We can’t afford to pay for our coal, our rent or our lights, and we can barely pay for enough food to keep body and soul together and with no job, I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

There was no uncertainty as to whom Aunt Mabel was talking to.

With his eyes still focused on the calendar Uncle Albert said, “If a man can’t have a job at Christmas, he should at least have a Christmas tree. That’s not too much to ask, is it? This country is so full of trees a man has to work hard not to bump into one.”

The blue eyed mechanic seemed not to have an opinion on the matter. However, Aunt Mabel did. She said, “No Albert, it’s not too much to ask. Ask away. It’s not going to change anything one bit.” Uncle Albert sighed, turned and looked out the window again.

It’s not known where Uncle Albert got the idea from. Whether it was his own, the saucy mechanic’s, or someone else’s, history is silent on the matter.

Wherever the idea came from, eight o’clock that night found Uncle Albert standing on a sidewalk with snow past his knees. He was staring at a sign bolted to a rusty wrought iron fence. He absently brushed falling snow from his shoulders and read, “Resteasy Cemetery.” Through the railings on the fence he could see trees. Many of them green coniferous trees. Christmas trees. Uncle Albert felt for the ax beneath his coat and walked into the cemetery.

Thwack, thwack cracked the night air. Uncle Albert stopped and listened. The citizens of the cemetery remained undisturbed. They continued their long peaceful slumber beneath the blanket of snow. No one else seemed to have heard either. Thwack, thwack and the tree was down.

Uncle Albert took hold of the end of the tree, put his head down and dragged it through the snow, oblivious to passing people, hurrying automobiles, and clanging streetcars. His only thought was for the Christmas tree and getting it home safely. When he reached the safety of his house he dragged the tree over his snow covered walkway and up his front steps into the house. Behind the closed door could be heard a muffled exclamation from Aunt Mabel, “Where did that come from?” And from the children not so muffled squeals of delight.

When interrogated by Aunt Mabel, Uncle Albert did not lie to her about where the tree came from. It’s not that he was above telling a lie, but from past experience he knew it was useless to do so. Uncle Albert found it prudent to tell the truth; at least to Aunt Mabel.

Whatever misgivings Aunt Mabel had about the tree, she kept them to herself when she saw how delighted and excited her children were. As far as they were concerned the tree was a magical gift presented to them by the Spirit of Christmas. It also was the most beautiful Christmas tree Aunt Mabel had ever seen which didn’t hurt Uncle Albert’s chances of keeping it.

Enough cocoa was scraped together to make hot chocolate drinks. And enough pennies were hunted down under sofa cushions, in lint-filled pockets and dark corners of drawers to send Leonard to the store for marshmallows. The tree was decorated and all agreed it was the best tree ever, anywhere. It was a peaceful sleep the family slept that night.

Well, it would have been peaceful except for Constable Billy, who had his beagle nose to the snow following a trail made by a dragged tree that was reported stolen from the Resteasy Cemetery of all places. As was peculiar to his breed he was tenacious in following the trail wherever it led. And it led straight to: “Why I’ll be. It’s Albert’s house,” said Constable Billy detaching his beagle nose from the snowy sidewalk.

As a result of the beagle-like detective work of Constable Billy and the gout of Judge Coldhartt, Uncle Albert was sentenced to forty five days in the local lockup. It would have been thirty days but Uncle Albert couldn’t pay the ten dollar fine that went with the thirty days and because justice must prevail and because Judge Coldhartt was in considerable discomfort he received an extra fifteen days. On such things as gout and beagle noses does a man’s fate hang; at least Uncle Albert’s did. As a small concession to the Christmas season and after it was decided the tree couldn’t be replanted Uncle Albert was allowed to keep the tree.

Christmas day found Aunt Mabel, Leonard, Horace, Wilfred and Nellie seated around the kitchen table eating their Christmas dinner of beef soup and bread. As there was no coal for the furnace they were bundled up in as many coats and sweaters they could get on. They were anxious to finish their meal so they could go into the living room and admire their beautiful Christmas tree and give thanks for it. They were all very grateful for the sacrifice Uncle Albert had made on their behalf.

Meanwhile, Uncle Albert was in a warm cell lying on his bunk under warm covers. His Christmas presents of socks and mitts from a local church were on a shelf over his head. His belly was full of turkey and Christmas pudding. The last thing he saw pinned to the wall at the foot of his bunk that night before he fell to sleep was a mechanic with a saucy smile and the bluest eyes you ever saw. He slept with a contented smile on his face through the night.

That night snow fell, turning the city into an enchanted land of cottony softness. The people rushing about, the hurrying automobiles, and the clanging streetcars all seemed frozen in time against a backdrop of the city’s twinkling lights and the falling snow. It looked just like a picture on a Christmas card. You could almost see Merry Christmas printed over the top of the picture. Except… as Uncle Albert would point out, all those yellow holes in the snow kind of takes something away from it.

© Mike Cook 2007

My wife and I have been jilted. Our Toyota Corolla, which has served us faithfully and loyally for nine years, and in return has been rewarded with fidelity and loyalty from us, has capriciously transferred it’s affections from us to our son, without so much as a backward glance.

How did this tawdry affair come about? This is how: Our son, who, as I write this, will be seventeen this Halloween, came into possession of a driver’s license last week. His own, as it turns out. As a consequence we haven’t seen the car or our son for a week.

I’ve told the car not to come crawling back when it needs studded tires this winter or a new battery or a tank of gas.

However, what really bothers me is this: How did my son get to be seventeen so soon, when it took me three eternities to reach that age? By my reckoning of time he should only be eight years old.

I can remember his birth as if it were yesterday. Better still I can remember his conception as if it were yesterday. It was planned with all the care and precision that went into the planning of the invasion of Normandy during WWII. My wife played the part of General Eisenhower, while I played the part of a private in one of the allied armies. I followed orders and did what I was told and took the beaches, raised the flag and accomplished the mission (it truly was accomplished) and nine months later my son made his entrance onto the world’s stage.

It must be recorded for history that he made his entrance reluctantly and only after much persuasion. I believe his reluctance was due to his having heard rumors of what was going on out in the world; and being a smart human person, wanted no part of it. And who could blame him?

Eventually he was yanked into the world, the cord was cut, and he was passed to a nurse who held him up for all the world to admire and exclaim over. My son then made his first statement to the world, leaving no doubt to his thoughts on being yanked from his warm and cozy nest and thrust into a crazy place.

Listen carefully, his statement was this: He defecated.

And I said this: “Well done my son, I could not have said it better!”

I will lower the curtain while the scenery is being changed on the stage and raise it again on a warm, sunny, spring day in St. John’s. There will be skeptics and cynics who will read the previous sentence and ask this question: “How can there be such a thing as a warm, sunny, spring day in St. John’s?” Believe it. I saw it with my own eyes.

On this miraculous day I was playing on the grass in Bowring Park with my son, who was about two years old, when a gentleman walking by stopped and said, “Enjoy him while you can. The time goes all too fast.” I then spoke these ignorant words to him: “I know.”

Can you believe my ignorance and arrogance? Believe it. I was there. I knew nothing about how quickly the time would pass and how soon my two year old son would be almost seventeen and seducing my car away from me.

I will mercifully lower the curtain on the ignorant fool in the park (me) and raise it two years later.

My son asked me a question. I don’t remember where or when he asked it. All I remember is the question. It was this: “What happens if you don’t live till I’m twenty?”

My response was this: I did what a human person sometimes does when it wants to comfort another human person. I put my arms around him, hugged him and then I lied to him.

This was my lie: I told him there was nothing to worry about, everything would be alright, and I surely would live long past his twentieth birthday.

He trusted my words because I was his father and I was still infallible in his eyes. He did not know and would not have believed that I could not possibly know these things to be true. In truth I could barely tie my shoelaces properly let alone tell the future. I was a fraud.

It’s no wonder my son was reluctant to come out into the world. The rumors were true. The world is a crazy place. I have some advice for all those human persons who are in their warm, cozy nests waiting to make their entrance on the world’s stage. It’s this: Don’t be so hasty. Take your time. The worlds not all it’s cracked up to be.

When my son was born I vowed not to make the mistakes I thought my parents made. I was going to be a perfect parent. Mom, Dad wherever you are it’s not as easy as I thought. I might as well have vowed to grow wings and fly to the top of Mt. Everest and have a picnic. Needless to say I fell a little short.

Here I would like to write that I did my best. However, I don’t think I can honestly write that. What I can write is that I love my son more than anything or anyone. Love does not absolve us of blame or even from having to say we’re sorry, nor even from taking the garbage out. But it is something.

I will lower the curtain here, because I have to go grocery shopping. However, before I do that I need to seduce a car back into my warm embrace. Perhaps a bouquet of car air fresheners will do the trick.

© Mike Cook 2007

The fact is I couldn’t write sooner because I didn’t know how to explain it and I’m still not sure if I can. I feel uncomfortable even writing these words.

When I was “writing” this explanation in my head I had a lengthy and involved account of why a couple of weeks turned into a few months. I soon realized this would have bored you and made me even more uncomfortable.

The short version is that I became discouraged with writing.

When I began writing these columns I thought I might be able to sell some, and while I have had six or seven published, my original intent hasn’t been met. If I were a younger person I could tell myself time was on my side, if I kept plugging away. However, at my age I know this not to be true; hence the discouragement, and no columns having been written for a few months. I don’t know if I want to devote the time and effort to writing anymore or if I would be happier using that time pursuing other interests.

Having said that I have had a couple of ideas for stories knocking about in my mind; I just don’t know if I have the passion or if I am able to find the “place” again where these stories come from.

Mike

Among other things I have to get caught up on my outdoor chores before the meat eating flies arrive. My wife is also looking at me darkly and muttering something about finally cleaning the basement and installing the new kitchen tap. She also said something about spending less time downstairs with the computer and more time upstairs with her. I have a feeling that after a few days she will change her mind about me spending more time with her. I don’t think she will change her mind about the other things though. Hopefully I can get my time management problems sorted out so that I will have time to write my nonsense.

Mike

Bringing my gaze and my mind closer to home I noticed that spring had pried loose winter’s icy grip from the land and water. If I held my head in the right position and squinted just so into the sunshine over the water, I could almost imagine what it would be like out on the sound puttering about in a boat in the summer warmth. All this brought to my mind the time a few years back, when I decided I needed a nautical chart for the waters around Random Island.

My wife and I went to a store in St. John’s, which sold these nautical charts as well as parts and toys for boats, to make this purchase. Once inside the store I made my way to the electronic marine toys while my wife went to check out the boating apparel.

I was admiring a radar/chart plotter which wouldn’t have been out of place on the bridge of an ocean liner when I felt the presence of a sales clerk over my shoulder.

“There’s a plug-in device which enables you to also use it as a sounder,” he informed me. “It would make a fine addition to any yacht.”

“Indeed it would,” I agreed.

He then spoke the name of a very prestigious yacht club and asked me if I was a member.

Now, I am fully aware that most people finding themselves in the hole, which I was now firmly situated in, would have managed somehow to crawl out. I, however, proceeded to dig further down.

“No,” I said, “I’m not a member of that one.”

“Which one do you belong to?” he asked me.

“The other one,” I replied.

“Other one? Which other one?” he stubbornly asked.

I pulled myself to my full height, looked down my nose as best I could, gave him my “what a silly little fool you are look” and said, “What do you mean what other one? The other one is the one that isn’t the one you mentioned.”

“Oh!” he said, “I see.”

“Oh, indeed.” I sniffed.

“I take it then,” said the clerk, “you won’t be purchasing the radar/plotter?”

“Not today,” I said. “All I need is a chart for the waters around Random Island.”

“One chart?” he asked.

“One will be sufficient,” I said.

At the checkout counter the clerk said, “that will be twenty-four dollars and ninety four cents…including tax…sir.”

My wife approached as I was counting out the four cents and said, “Now all you need is a boat.”

“Indeed!” said the clerk with the beginnings of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

Eventually I did get a boat…a small one. There wasn’t enough room in the boat for me to unroll the chart so I keep it in a closet and unroll it on the dining room table. There I sit studying the chart, occasionally lifting my head to stare out the window where I can see myself in the warm sunshine puttering around Ireland’s Eye Island off the eastern end of Random Island. The water there can be rough as it’s close to the open bay and because of that I haven’t actually taken my small boat there.

I’ve been thinking lately of getting some more charts, perhaps of the waters around Tahiti or Bora Bora. But first, if you’ll excuse me, I have to clean the dining room window. With all those smudge marks on the glass it’s getting a little hard to see out of it.

© Mike Cook 2007

Mike

This circumstance has presented me with a golden opportunity because I live in the province of Newfoundland and Labrador which is, at least for now, a member of the Canadian confederation.

What I propose to do, (much to my financial enrichment I hope) is buy up as much beach front property as I can on the island of Newfoundland. Not where the beaches are now of course. I have more sense than that. No… what I am going to do is buy property where the beaches are going to be after the effects of Global Warming work their magic. After the water rises and the air warms I envision a tropical archipelago much like the Hawaiian Islands. As you can imagine I’ll need to move quickly on this idea before the professional real estate developers get wind of this opportunity

In fact I’ve already bought some suitable land in the back country where, according to my reckoning, there will be prime beach property before you can say windfall profits. Because most people don’t have a mind like mine and haven’t seen the potential I’ve seen, I was able to get the land at a very reasonable price. I was almost embarrassed to take advantage of people in that way. However, I recovered sufficiently enough from my embarrassment to proceed with the purchases.

At the same time that I’m buying future beach property, I intend to grow from seeds in greenhouses in my backyard, palm trees, coconut trees, banana trees, citrus trees, pineapples, and various other suitable tropical plants. They will be ready to replant as soon as conditions permit. As you can see this is a well thought out plan.

Of course not everyone will be as fortunate as I will. Water Street in downtown St. John’s will take on an added ironical significance. Be that as it may, I’m sure the citizens of St. John’s wouldn’t mind too much relocating to higher ground out around the bay. I’m quite confident in their abilities to adapt, and see no problem in their evolution to “baymen.”

As is usually the case when a person has a great idea there are skeptics all too ready to mock and scorn. There are some who say that I’m crazy to be taking such a financial risk. “What if,” they ask, “the planet, unfortunately doesn’t warm up?”

“Global Warming is coming as sure as taxes and death.” I tell them. There are numerous, (too numerous to count) computer models showing it’s only a matter of time and degree.

These computer models are tried and tested. They are the same type of models used to forecast the weather a day or week in advance. They can even forecast the weather three months in advance, and we all know how accurate these forecasts are. Why they…ummm…hmmm…Say, you wouldn’t be interested in buying some almost prime beach front property would you? It has great potential, and because I like your looks I’ll sell it to you…cheap.

© Mike Cook 2007

As I tried to explain to my wife, it’s a matter of physics. If you’ve ever cleaned out a closet you know what I mean. Once the closet is empty of all matter, you’ve created a vacuum. And we all know nature does not like a vacuum so before you can blink, all kinds of odds and ends are sucked back into the closet. It happens every time.

My basement is bigger than a closet and if all the matter was removed I believe some kind of critical mass would be achieved leading to a singular event, namely a black hole in my basement. Everything in our galaxy if not the universe would be sucked into the black hole. Before you scoff, I assure you I’ve done the calculations; unfortunately I can’t reproduce them here because at the moment my calculator needs new batteries.

As I’ve already said I tried to explain this theory to my wife; however, from the look in her eyes I knew she wasn’t buying what I was selling. It’s amazing and discouraging how many times I see that look.

So I tried a different tack. I told her I had a lot of memories and memorabilia stored in the basement. Why, I had Maple Leafs’ hockey programs and hockey magazines and baseball annuals from the early nineteen sixties. Not to mention my hockey and baseball cards and other neat things along those lines. She then asked me, “How many boxes does it take to hold your memories?”

“One,” I said.

“And how many boxes and other piles of junk are in the basement?” she asked.

Needless to say I wasn’t happy where her logic was leading to, so I did what children and husbands do, I sulked and said, “You just don’t want me to have anything!”

I was hoping that she would throw up her hands and say, “If you’re going to be that childish do whatever you want!” Unfortunately it didn’t work this time because she looked at me steely eyed and said, “Clean out the basement or else!”

From time to time in the past, I have been accused of lacking in the intelligence department, but in this instance I was smart enough not to ask, “Or else what?”

If in the next little while you should find yourself making an unexpected trip to Newfoundland and more specifically to my basement and then into a black hole…well… I’m sorry…but my wife made me do it.

© Mike Cook 2007

I don’t need to look for excuses not to get all the outdoor work done. I’ll only have about a week and a half of good weather to get the lawn raked and prepared, the gardens ready for planting, clean up the fallen trees, clean the boat and all the other outside jobs done before the fly season arrives. These flies are meat eaters so one ventures outside with caution and a portable blood transfusion kit. The capelin season comes after the fly season. Capelin are small smelt like fish that come inshore to spawn bringing with them cod, whales and easterly winds with chilly wet weather in late June or early July. I’d just as soon they did their spawning elsewhere. My wife thinks I’m exaggerating these problems so I can get out of doing work. This accusation hurts because as you know, I am not one to exaggerate anything.

Anyway, my wife wants me to install the new kitchen tap which I bought six months ago. She usually lets me pay someone to do these handyman jobs because over the years I’ve convinced her I’m not capable of this kind of work. However, I made a mistake years ago when we built our house; I installed every bit and piece of plumbing. I appeared too competent. This is a mistake I warn all young men not to make.

I began this job by sitting in my comfortable swivel rocker. You may be wondering why I started here. I know my wife did. She asked, “Why are you sitting there. Aren’t you supposed to be putting in the new tap?”

“Yes dear,” I answered, “this is the first stage.”

Despite being an intelligent woman she unaccountably failed to grasp what I meant.

So I explained to her, “Well my love, when I brought the tap home I took the installation manual out of the box to have a look at it and when I finished with it I put it away in a safe place so that I could find it again.”

She again for some reason did not understand what I meant. I began to suspect that she was being deliberately stubborn in this. She asked me, “So what’s the problem then?”

“I can’t remember where I put it,” I said, “so I’m sitting here trying to relax so it will come to me where I put it. And if you don’t mind my saying dear, your constant questions aren’t helping me to relax any.”

The slamming shut of a door didn’t help me to relax either. I did the best I could to remember where I put the manual, until I fell asleep.

As luck would have it my wife found the manual under the seat cushion of my swivel rocker the next day. Imagine that.

I’ve run into another problem that may delay the installation of the tap. I can’t seem to remember where I put my tools that I use for this kind of job. I’m just going to have to sit in my swivel rocker and relax and see if I can remember where I put them.

Would you do me a favor? Would you tell my wife? She doesn’t seem to understand me when I explain things to her.

© Mike Cook 2007

My son informed me that he had learned that a car horn is only to be used in an emergency and not to communicate displeasure with another driver’s driving skills. “Oh?” I said, raising an eyebrow. He also told me you shouldn’t slam on your brakes if someone is tailgating you. “Oh?” I said, raising both eyebrows. He then told me hand and finger signals should also be avoided and that these behaviors are a form of road rage. At this my eyebrows went to the back of my head and I started to give him my views on the subject when I heard my wife loudly clear her throat. I turned to look at her and found her staring at me with the look that says, “I know what you’re thinking and if you know what’s good for you don’t do it!” I calculated my odds and then made a tactical retreat to the basement.

I know a little bit about road rage. Several times I’ve been a victim of it. One time there I was, driving down the road, listening to the radio, minding my own business when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a car following too close. The man driving was obviously in too much of a hurry and was probably working himself up into a full blown road rage. Not wanting this to happen to the poor fellow I thought I would give him a friendly warning to back off a little. I jammed on my brakes. I had the satisfaction of knowing my good deed wasn’t wasted when I heard his tires squeal. By that time I had already accelerated ahead.

Would you believe it? There I was again driving down the road minding my own business when this same car pulled along side of me with the driver making all sorts of hand signals and gestures with his fingers. I had no idea what he was getting on about but I found it rather annoying. However, not wanting to stoop to his level I gave him but one gesture in return. I then accelerated ahead again.

Before I knew what was happening there was that same car in front of me jamming on his brakes. What an ignorant so and so I thought. I had a good mind to drive my car up into his trunk and over his backseat and give him a good thump on the head. If hand guns were legal in this country I could have stopped his nonsense right away. I could’ve shot his tires out, right from underneath him. As it was I had to settle for driving him off the road. I only did this so that I could have a heart-to-heart talk with him and help him mend his ways.

When we got out of our cars I found him to be a bit stubborn in taking my advice. This led me to place my fingers around his throat so he could hear me better. He also must have wanted me to hear something because he placed his fingers around my throat.

We danced about like this for awhile, with me trying to give him some friendly advice which he stubbornly refused to hear. That’s probably why we didn’t hear the police car drive up. I had my leg drawn back to give a swift kick to my stubborn friend, thinking this might cause him to listen to me, when I looked up and saw two unhappy Mounties glaring at us. One of them told us we could make him happy by taking our fingers from around each other’s throats. Not wanting to be the cause of this large gentleman’s unhappiness I unwound my fingers from around my friend’s throat. Apparently he was of a like mind because he did the same for me.

In the midst of my explanation to the Mounties of what happened I said all this could have been avoided had I had a hand gun. At this the Mounties’ eyebrows shot to the back of their heads and quivered like a dog’s tail. I have to admit that I probably could have chosen my words more carefully.

So, as you can see I’ve been a victim of road rage myself and if I’m not qualified to teach my own son the rules of the road, then I don’t know who is.

I think my wife has gone out…you know, I think this might be a good time to have a talk with my son.

© Mike Cook 2007

David Brockett is a Texan who lives near the Oklahoma border and writes very humorous short stories and letters which are posted on his blog, Red River Wizdum. He also has a blog called The Rabbit Hole where his writing is more personal. David who is a veteran of the Vietnam War has a poem posted there called Shallow Lines On Polished Stone which remembers those who died in that war. I found this poem very moving and I urge you read it.

Mike