To Tree or Not To Tree? That Is the Question 

By Cappy Hall Rearick

 “Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree.

In the eyes of children, they are all 30 feet tall.” ~Larry Wilde

As soon as the turkey carcass is history, Babe and I begin our annual debate over what to do about a Christmas tree. How big should it be? Do we buy a real tree or go with a fake one? We even explore the idea of not putting up a tree at all. 

Babe never fails to vote for a pre-lit tree, direct from China, often flocked with asbestos-looking white pellets. He wants his fake tree to be the biggest one since the invention of plastic.

That is not now, nor has it ever been what I want, so in previous years when I won the debate, I high-tailed it out to Happy Pappy’s Fresh-Cut Tree Farm on the edge of town. Last Christmas, however, it all came to an end when Pappy got busted.

The rumor going around was that his customers were lighting up and spreading joy, but it wasn’t Pappy’s fresh-cut trees that got lit. So, when this year’s Christmas Tree Debate began in earnest, I concluded that, like  a lot of things in 2020, my trip to the fresh-cut tree farm was a no-go. Thanks to Pappy, I was fresh out of options. Pun intended. 

Babe said, “Hey! Here’s an idea. Let’s buy six small trees and place them throughout the house. We can trim them with leftover decorations from the giant tree I bought last year when I won and you lost the debate. Won’t that be fun?”

Babe doesn’t do decorating or much of anything that involves getting up from his recliner. His energy level spikes after two bites of a protein bar and nosedives after adjusting his La-Z-Boy. When he suggested buying and decoratingsix Christmas trees to put all over the house, both his mental and physical well-being scared the Dickens out of me.

“Did you say WE,” I asked while looking around for my mask. “Babe, are you nuts? Running a high fever? Please tell me you didn’t catch Covid.”

“I’m fine as wine. This can be the year of the Christmas Tree Compromise,” he added, his eyes bright as that famous Star in the East.

 “Compromise as in give and take? Who are you and what have you done with my husband? Give him back. I promise you’ll thank me later.”

The silly smile pasted on his face made him look like Bozo the Clown which made me wonder if he had a Pappy Powwow while I was Christmas shopping (on line wearing a mask).

 “I say we buy six small trees —three for you and three for me. You want to sweep needles off the floor every day? Knock yourself out. I opt for three pre-lit fake trees that, as you often remind me, come from a hallowed place in China known the world over as Zhejiang. Six trees will make the house feel so Christmassy.”

By this time, I was pretty sure he was hallucinating. While visions of sugarplums were spinning in his head, images of a vodka crantini pirouetted like Baryshnikov on crack in mine. 

“Babe, you must have a high fever and/or COVID because you’re delusional if you think I’m going to put up and decorate six Christmas trees.”

He threw up his hands. “I can’t imagine why not. It’s a perfect solution.”

I stared at him and prayed he wasn’t contagious. “Solution to what?”

He sighed. “Six small trees means we can both win the debate.”

“Wait here,” I said. “Don’t even blink till I come back. I need to look for a thermometer and the biggest bottle of vodka in the house.”

“Well, it sounds to me like you’re gung ho to take my temperature,” he said, “but what’s up with the vodka? It’s not even noon.”

 “But it’s five o’clock somewhere in the world. I just texted Santa to drop down the chimney with a load of Prozac for me and a straitjacket for you. He texted back and said, “Drink crantini’s till Christmas Eve and save one for me.”

                                

Sitting Shiva with Miss Fancy

  Sitting Shiva refers to the seven-day period of mourning which takes place following a burial. During this time, family members suspend all worldly activities, and devote attention to mourning the deceased. 

“I aughta wrap myself in cellophane like Kathy Bates did in Fried Green Tomatoes,” said Shelby, “and tie a red ribbon around my neck.

“Personally,” I said, “as a fashion accessory, I seriously doubt it will make it to Vogue. What’s up with you and cellophane?”

She batted her eyes and grinned. “I’m a sucker for sick kittens so why not look like a big fat lollipop.”

You can’t make that kind of logic up. It’s true that Shelby tends to transmit a signal directly from her house to all stray cats. I’m told that cats, like kids, have an instinct for sniffing out the best neighborhoods. Shelby’s home is the CAThedral while she’s the feline answer to Mother Teresa.

“What’s going on, Shelby?”

Her shoulders slumped. “It’s a long, creepy story. You sure you want to hear it?”

I wasn’t sure, but I nodded anyhow.

“A kitty with feline leukemia showed up and I took her in. The poor lil’ thing wasn’t long for this world and I wanted to send her to the next with good memories.” 

(In order to have that kind of compassion, one needs to believe that a cat’s memory storage rolls over into the afterlife.) 

“Did you name the poor lil’ thing?”

“I called her Miss Fancy because while she was here, she made a big splash. She had permanent “eyeliner” around her eyes and a beauty mark on her nose and was the neighborhood starlet.”

 Shelby got teary-eyed and had to stop and blow her nose. 

 “Well, it finally happened.” She blew her nose again and wiped her eyes. “Miss Fancy died and we buried her in the back yard.”

Shelby said she left town the following week. When she called home, she was told that Okay, the cat from next door, and Shelby’s other cat, Bailey, perched on top of Miss Fancy’s grave. 

She said the two cats sat Shiva with Miss Fancy for seven whole days. Shelby’s son took photos on his cell in case he needed to prove that he was not on hallucinogens again.

When I discussed the phenomenon with the local cat vet, Dr. Lisa, I told her about the two cats sitting Shiva with Miss Fancy and asked if that was normal cat behavior. 

Dr. Lisa said she had heard other stories about cats visiting graves. She offered the medical explanation that cats continue to give off oxygen even after they die. She said there is supportive evidence regarding feline sensory perceptions. “It is being seriously considered,” she said soberly. (I didn’t ask by whom.) 

“Research,” she continued, “has determined that cats, being super-sensitive, are lured toward other sick, dying or dead animals.” 

Although Shelby still mourns Miss Fancy, she told me last week that yet another under-the-weather kitten showed up at her house right after Miss Fancy had left the building, so to speak. Sick with an upper respiratory infection and way too thin, she was appropriately named, Twiggy. 

The kitten was barely breathing and her sense of smell was totally blocked. She had no appetite, so Shelby taught her how to eat again. That was before Dr. Lisa waved her magic antibiotic wand.

Twiggy sniffs and smells the whole new world that is open to her, thanks to Shelby and Dr. Lisa. 

“She eats like a truck driver so I might have to rename her.” Shelby said wearing a big, fat grin. “I’m thinking Mama Cass.”

“What does Miss Twiggy look like,” I asked.

“She has black, mink-like hair, with white on her face. Like the U.K. Twiggy, she’s a fashion plate. Get this: she’s got teensy white gloves on her paws with scallops around each pad. She also wears a white slip with a pilgrim collar.”

“Sounds to me like,” I said, “Twiggy’s basic wardrobe has a better chance of making the cover of Vogue than you all wrapped up in cellophane.”

“Yep,” she replied. “I’ve heard that we have a lot to learn from animals, but I never thought it included fashion tips.”

I looked down at my ragged jeans and USC sweatshirt, circa 1960. “You think Twiggy could teach me a thing or two?

Shelby looked me up and down and shook her head. “Stick to Vogue, girlfriend. It’s got pictures and everything.”

So advises the Celephane Queen.