I am struggling with the question that burns in all of us at one time or another. It is one that has dogged humans for centuries: “Am I a scavenger driven by some recessive gene left over from the hunter-gather days or am I just cheap?” I’d like to think the first to be true, but my wife might argue the latter with success. Either way, I often question my actions, unfortunately it is usually after I have “rescued” a treasure from certain death in the landfill. If only regret came before foolishness instead of afterwards, life would be a lot easier.
I should have learned this when I was ten. But ten-year-old boys aren’t known for paying attention. There was a landfill not far from our home in Raleigh. Before you think I lived in a hovel on the outskirts of town, that was not the case. We lived in a subdivision that was just being built on some beautiful farmland. It just so happens if you walked about three miles through the woods, over a creek and past a pond with an abandoned boathouse, you would arrive at a landfill. Which, when you are ten is more like a large discount warehouse store. Incidentally, I have never been to the outskirts of town, but have always wanted to visit. Perhaps on a future vacation. It is certainly worth considering.
On one visit over the creek and through the woods, I discovered a perfectly good television someone no longer needed. Yes, perfectly good, if you wanted something that looked like a working television but was beyond all repair. In those days (how I hate being old enough to say that!), televisions were powered by large picture tubes, hence the name “boob tube”. In this case I was very much the boob. The thing weighed a ton, or so it seemed. Lugging it back over the creek and through the woods was a Herculean feat. I could have used Hercules’ feet. Mine were hardly up to the task and neither was the rest of my body.
Once it home, I took it inside for dad to fix. When you are ten, a dad can fix anything. After all he had a hammer, drill and a skill saw. What more do you need? Of course, when I became a dad, I realized that “dad can fix anything” is misguided. Plugging it in proved to be a BIG mistake as witnessed by the big “poof” and the bright, brief flash that came from inside the television’s busty innards. But Dad fixed it. He told me to lug out to the curb.
You would think that would have cured me from doing similar things as an adult. Had I been born a girl, it would have been a lesson learned. But as a male that just wasn’t the case.
Flash to a January many decades later. Someone is tossing out an artificial Christmas tree. What? Are you kidding? While they saw trash, I saw treasure. Proof that their eyesight is much better than mine.
When we moved into our current home, I began purchasing two cut Christmas trees each year. One for inside the house, the other for the front porch so that Frosty the Glowman could celebrate too. The tree was in sections, all of which I dutifully retrieved from the dumpster and loaded into my car. This should have been the red flag that stopped me. Even though this thing was in sections, putting it in the car was akin to trying to reload the toothpaste tube with a spoon. Safe and secure in the trunk and backseat of my sedan, I popped in a Christmas cd and drove my sleigh home singing all the way while thinking that I had just pulled off the ultimate dumpster dive.
Once home I whisked my treasure up to my office and assembled it. I just couldn’t wait to see how it would look. Unlike the folks tossed the tree, I did not have the assembly instructions. In hindsight it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m a guy and instructions are for sissies.
After the first attempt, I stood back to admire my handy work. It took me a couple of seconds to realize that I should have checked the length of the branches while assembling the tree. We all know that a Christmas tree is supposed to be cone shaped and mine was. Unfortunately, it looked more like an ice cream cone. Apparently, the longer branches go on the bottom. Who knew?
I must admit, it really brought the feel of a real tree. It is the only artificial tree I have seen that sheds needles. WOW! It is amazing that they were able to reproduce the one trait people don’t want in a Christmas tree. Make no mistake, I know that one good gust of wind and this thing will look like pipe cleaners stuck in a dowel rod. At that point, I’m not sure that Charlie Brown would try to save this tree or that Linus’ blanket would do it much good. It’ll take more than a little love and a lot of glue.
It turns out it is a good distance tree, meaning it looks good from a distance. That works for me since folks will only be close to it while entering the front door. It will hardly get a glance and the lights and ornaments would cover up any bald spots. And if anyone should ask, I’ll just say “it’s a rescue tree.” People love it when you tell them your dog is a rescue, so that should really bring us all a little closer to Christmas.
When you think about it, the term “rescue Christmas tree” reminds me of the baby’s birth we celebrate with that conifer. You know, the Savior sent to “save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray?” And that’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown
Merry Christmas and let me know if you want any plastic Christmas tree mulch.
