Oh oh Christmas Tree

This is to be our first Christmas season at home for almost a decade. And it will, of course, be our first in Nova Scotia.

My beloved is beloved of all things Christmas. If he could, he would celebrate 365 days a year. So when he said he wanted a real tree and a cut our own tree, I reluctantly went along. When he said he wanted it up and decorated on November 30. I reluctantly went along. My real concern is being bored with all things Christmas before December 25.

So off we drove to the tree farm I had found on line. I had emailed to make sure they would be open. So many on line results are old ones I have found. And things do change in the real world. I had the address right. I had the days of being open right. What I did not have right was the fact that we had arrived an hour and a half before opening and no one was there to listen to our plea for indulgence.

Fortunately, some people were walking a dog in the field nearby. And they told us of another farm just a few kilometres away. Off we drove. We found the place and it was open, although being mid-week, we were the only customers. We were directed by the farmer to the field across the road. There was a lane into it. The field was soggy, but with four-wheel drive we managed to enter. We trudged through, dodging puddles and small ponds until we found the perfect tree. It had been well pruned, was tall and fulsome.

We had brought along our trusty saw. It has cut down many a tree, and sawed off many a branch. Trusty, old and dull as it is.

The chosen tree’s trunk was unusually thick at the ground level. We took turns grunting, trying to keep from getting too wet, which meant bending awkwardly rather than kneeling in the drenched, muddy earth. One sawed, one yanked and finally the tree was free. We had brought twine to wrap it enough to fit into the back of our SUV. After all, we are old hands at cutting Christmas trees, even if it has been a very long time since we have done it.

We had even brought the new galvanized pail along that it would eventually be secured into for the duration. And of course our favourite hand pruning clippers were inside the pail too. Why either of these items were with us at this stage of the process, I am not sure. Unfortunately, the pail and its contents had to be removed from the car in order to get the tree in place. Meanwhile the pail and clippers we set on the ground beside the car. And there they remained as we drove away enjoying the pleasing scent of the freshly cut tree and delighted at our catch. Neither one of us noticed the missing items until we got home, far away from that soggy field. Perhaps the pail is still sitting there. Perhaps the friendly farmer found it and is wondering how it got there.

On the appointed day of erection, the tree was tested in the brand new galvanized pail that we had purchased upon realizing our loss. It fit just perfectly. No need to reduce its height. A few lower branches had to be cut off, however, so that it could nestle into the bottom. The pail was quickly tested for its water retaining capability. And we were ready to get to work.

A mat was set on the lovely pine floor. A plastic cover was set over it and the tree was inserted into the pail, which had been placed on the carefully prepared covering.

Rocks from our beach had been gathered at low tide the day before. These were artfully inserted one by one into the pail by John as I held the tree upright. The tree was now secure and in place. And the ritual decoration began.

Four strings of new lights were wound carefully around the tree from top to bottom. Our abundant hand-painted wooden decorations, collected over 37 years from around the world, were carefully hung from the branches. These had not seen the light of day for many years. And as each was unwrapped from its paper nest, we greeted it like a long lost friend.

Once the decoration was complete, an inspection made, and the result approved, the pail was filled with water to feed the thirsty tree and keep it fresh for the next month. And the lights were lit. Spectacular!

Before the finishing touch could be applied, a broom and dust pan were brought out so that I could sweep up the fallen needles from around the tree. We would then lay the red paper to finish off the floor covering. Down I got on my knees with dustpan and brush – My heart stopped. Time stopped. It was true: water was seeping out of the pail, slowly it seemed as it had not yet left the plastic for the floor. Panic!

We had to edge the laden tree, offending pail and mat toward the centre of the room where the ceiling was high enough to remove the tree from the pail, after removing each carefully inserted rock. Then we had to carefully lift the tree and shift it beside the pail without tipping either. A few of the ornaments fell indignantly to the floor nonetheless.

As I stood holding the tree in as vertical a position as I could manage, John took the dripping pail outside and dumped the water out. I remained holding the tree for some time as he completed some mopping up. Then he went in search of a plastic bucket, which thankfully fit perfectly inside the defective galvanized one.

The rocks were inserted once again. The tree was now secure once more. Then, carefully the whole package was shifted inch by inch back into its place in the corner of the room. Jug by jug the plastic insert was filled with water. We held our breath. And now the tree stands, we hope, set, secure and lovely.

Our backs, unfortunately have suffered, our muscles ache and exhaustion has set in. But we, like the tree, will recover. Oh Christmas Tree, oh Christmas Tree.

Waking

Tell me that my eyes are dreaming

As I look up from my nighttime rest

The snow that lies upon the rooftop

Can’t be surely what it’s seeming.

I thought that this was not to be

Until the festive season passed

And winter’s fury would be tempered

In this valley by the sea.

But nature will not be controlled

We suffer what it has to offer

Good or bad will be our fate

Be it wet or not or hot or cold.

Outside My Window

Last evening it was pouring rain and at 9:00 p.m. the temperature outside had climbed to 9.5 Celsius. This morning we awoke to a fierce wind, a smattering of ice pellets on the ground and a frigid -3 Celsius. By the afternoon, I needed fresh air and a walk. I bundled up and headed out the front door. A metal pot of greenery had been toppled. It was bone chilling and the trees groaned and cracked in the wind. There were ice puddles on the ground, although the sun tried to pierce the cloud cover. 

When I got home, my face red, my spine chilled, a cup of hot tea and honey was a most welcome beverage. I lay on the couch in the back room and looked out the windows at the sky and the bare branches of the maple trees. Suddenly there was a graceful flash and landing of a very large bird on one of the larger limbs. It certainly was not a crow. Nor was it quite big enough to be an eagle. It sat there for the longest time, turning its head slowly, purposefully, from side to side. It was definitely a hawk – a very large one.

I hesitated to go and get my camera, because I was sure it would soon be gone. But it lingered. I retreated to the other room to find my camera and took a picture of it from the kitchen window; then I returned to the back room and took a closer picture from a window there. Finally, I heaved against the force of the wind and opened the door to the deck and took yet another much closer picture. Stunning.

Three Boats

Most evenings we will sit in our rear living room, which has been known as the Great Room. We find that name somewhat pretentious. Last night I offered the suggestion of naming it La Salla del Mer or Seaview Room. Perhaps equally pretentious. For now the rear living room will do.

Room name aside, we sit and look out over the tidal river at the mouth of the Annapolis Basin. Across the water is the historic town of Annapolis Royal. It is debatable as to whether our view of that town or their view of our historic village is the better one. Both are lovely.

But our sightline is that of the older lower town, where most of the houses are designated as historical. They line up in various colours and shapes and sizes as neatly as the model villages I created for my childhood train set. When I look at them from the comfort of our fireside, it is as if I am a child looking wide-eyed through a frosted store window at the display of a perfect model village with its tree lined streets and tiny perfect buildings. What is missing is the little steam engine I loved so much with its carriages circling by, into and out of tunnels created in papier-mâché hills, with their tiny hand painted cows and sheep grazing. Just as that treasured childhood train set has long since disappeared, long gone are the trains that frequented the harbour across the water in the 1800 and early 1900s.

But wonder of wonders; the train is replaced in my vision by three fishing boats lined up at the wharf. One is in dry dock being repaired. The others sit waiting, nestled against the pier, sometimes floating high and sometimes sitting on dry land. The gulls screech overhead, a heron parades on the shore and an eagle flies majestically by with a fish in its claws. The clouds come and go, shaping my perception as they change the horizon. I am not looking at a model village. I am looking at life by the sea. And it is wonderful.

On Being Butch

Two days of hurricane force winds and heavy rain, pounded our home on the shores of the Annapolis Basin. The new windows recently installed were battered and breathed with the wind but, fortunately, remained secure. And apart from three toppled Muskoka chairs and canoe, a torn flag and a missing garbage container lid, the only potentially serious damage to our home was two tiles blown off the turret roof peak. 

Now being a man of many talents, I determined that I could easily repair the roof tiles by putting up our extension ladder and reaching over from one of the top rungs. With the aid of John, the ladder was erected to its maximum height. I collected a hammer from the basement, and some roofing nails that I had earlier located in a bag on the basement shelf. I put hammer into my belt, the nails into a waist satchel and the two tiles, which had been retrieved from quite different locations, into a cloth bag. Looking the part, I then started the long climb, much to the chagrin of John who stood looking up as if it might be my final ascent into heaven.

Now no fool am I, though I may appear to be one from time to time. As I arrived at what I assessed to be my maximum safe mount, reached unsteadily as far as I dared, and felt the ladder wobble just a little, I closed my eyes, inhaled and quickly descended. Without stopping, I walked into the house, went directly to the nearest telephone and called a young contractor who had recently done some work in our house. John was visibly relieved but dared not utter “I told you so”. 

Shortly afterwards, the contractor stopped by on his way to another job and in less than five minutes he had the job done. And a good thing too, as the rains would soon start again.

Not to let my macho imagine settle too long in the mire, I got out the chainsaw and cleared some branches and limbs off several of the trees on our property line. A job well done. My hardy image almost in tact.