Christmas Tree

Christmas tree: (n) a decorated tree at Yuletide

“If you want a tree, go get it yourself.”

That’s what my dad said when I was fourteen years old and asked him why we had not put up our tree as of yet, at Christmastime.

Normally the practice was to pick a tree and decorate it on my birthday–one week before Christmas. But for some reason, December 20th had rolled around and nobody had even mentioned getting one.

I was offended, disrupted, angry, bewildered, uncertain, out-of-spirits and generally and profoundly rebellious, in the most adolescent way possible.

So I complained. That’s what I knew how to do.

Since I had asked at least a half a dozen times about the tree, I felt it was time for me to object. he option provided for me by my dad was to go get a tree myself.

This was plausible because our family owned a little farm outside the town, where we grew some Christmas trees. So I had my brother drive me out to the location, grabbed a little hatchet and headed off through the snowy ground to bag myself an evergreen.

With my chubby legs and being severely out of shape, I was completely exhausted from the walk to the pines–ready to give up on my mission. After all, it wasn’t my fault. I was not in charge. If the damn family didn’t want a tree, then we should be treeless.

But the problem was, that included me–and I didn’t want to be treeless.

So braving the cold, little hatchet in hand, I found what I thought would be a good tree and began to whack at the trunk.

My hatchet had obviously been purchased by Davy Crockett when he went to the Alamo and not sharpened since. The first three strikes at the tree trunk didn’t even split the bark. So as not to bore you, I will shorten this story by telling you that an hour later, sweat pouring off my face, I finally got the tree to give up its roots and prepare to move to my home.

The trunk was an absolute mess. It was not a cut, but rather a massacre. But I drug it out, my brother and I put it on top of the car, and we drove it to the house. He kindly helped me saw the bottom off to make it even so we could put it into the Christmas tree stand. To add insult to my effort, it ended up being too tall. We had to cut off part of the top.

But eventually it sat in our living room, waiting to be adorned.

That evening when my father returned from working at his loan company, he stepped into the house, looked at the tree, and said to me, “Is that the best tree you could get?”

I didn’t respond to him directly, but in my mind I thought, “Yes. It’s the best tree I could get. Because this year it’s my tree.”



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Bobble: (n) a mishandling of the ball

Dictionary B

It’s the closest I ever came–at least in baseball.

I hated baseball, and it seemed that baseball returned in kind by disliking me. The harder I tried to hit the ball, the more I grounded out because my chubby legs couldn’t get me to first base.

What’s worse, everybody thought that because I was so big, I should be able to knock every pitch out of the park–thus making my dribbling even more dismaying.

But on this particular day, all the bases aligned in my favor.

First, I got to pitch, which was bizarre–a fellow my size usually ended up either catching or playing left field.

We were about to win the game. We were ahead by one run and there was one batter left. I had already struck out the previous two.

I felt a sudden burst of confidence.

It was such an unusual experience for me on the diamond that my head was woozy with euphoria.

I reared back, I threw the pitch. It was high, but the batter opted to hit it–the ball going straight up in the air in front of home plate.

I eased my way forward, knowing that all I had to do was catch it and we would win. All the stigma on my lack of ability would be swept away by cheering teammates, adoring my performance.

It seemed like the ball hung in the air for an hour–so long that I had time to think. Or dare I say, doubt?

Maybe better explained, freak out.

When it came down, rather than landing in my hands, I tried to catch it with my chest and trap it.

I bobbled it.

It bounced off and dribbled ten feet to my right.

The runner scored, and then, because the first baseman bobbled a throw from the third baseman, another run scored and we lost the game.

No one said anything to me–which was the worst punishment possible.

I guess they assumed that since I wasn’t very good at baseball, bobbling was inevitable.

It isn’t.

All bobbling is caused by over-thinking the catch.

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