Popcorn and Christmas Trees and Other Surprising Disasters
But since then, I’ve been recalling other Christmas tree disasters.
When I was a little girl, one snowy Christmas got suddenly warm and a big thaw ensued. The big icicles turned into streams. Snow piles became slushy rivers. Eighth Street flooded. Water dripped and ran everywhere, including my grandma’s living room. The water came in at the top of the big windows where the gorgeous big icicles had hung. The Christmas tree sat in front of the windows. No one saw the melt trickling over the glass, down the wall until the tree was in a puddle and the wooden stand was floating. Sparks flew out of the wall socket and the power went out. It was a perfect opportunity for my cousin to try out, and get away with, his newest bad language. “Shit!” he said, “Hell’s broke loose.” And no adult took issue.
Of course, everyone has a story about finding a bird nest in their tree. We did. Ours had an egg in it!
But one year, our cat, Mittens, was so intent on the tree, my mom put her out in the snow until we finished decorating. (Her name was Mittens, but she hated the snow.) When she came inside, she paced around the tree and yowled. What in the world was the matter with her? She hopped up on the end table and before Mom could grab her, she flew to the lampshade into the tree where, after a flurry, she leaped down with a bat in her mouth. She shook it and took it to my dad. The tree swayed, a few ornaments fell, but it didn’t fall over. The bat tried to flee, but the shaking by Mittens rendered that a hopeless Christmas wish. Mittens looked so smug when the bat went out in the snow.
I have another Cat vs. Christmas Tree story, but it has a messier ending. Our big black tuxedo, Boozer, one year stripped the tree of the tinsel. That was the shiny silver that hung off the branches and moved with every breeze when a door opened or someone walked past. He just gobbled those icicles up. Then he barfed up the biggest, shiniest tinsel ball you ever saw. A hairless fur ball! My brother, hysterical with laughter, called it a cat ornament and said we should hang it on the tree.
Then there was the year it was so horribly cold. Dad was at work, and Mom felt sorry for his beagle hounds in their pen. Peggy and Queen were Dad’s hunting dogs. Their pen was attached to the garage with doggie doors into the garage where they had beds of clean straw. Dad kept them penned for a number of reasons. They were hunting dogs, fast and focused. We lived on Main Street. But that Christmas was so cold Mom had to empty their frozen water bowls. She has a heart for animals and she was certain they were freezing. Even knowing that they hated to be brought into the house, hated their nails clicking on the linoleum, hated the confinement of a room, and generally panicked to get back outside, Mom made the decision to bring them in to keep them warm. She wrapped them in blankets and we carried them inside. I remember thinking, Dad wouldn’t like this. We put them down on a rug and intended to hold them, pet them, maybe play with them. They went berserk. Hound-dog howling and racing through the house, like “Help me help me I’m a hostage!” We tried to catch and console, but they were lightning-fast rabbit chasers. They ran under and around that Christmas tree braying, ears flapping, until they were thoroughly entangled in the wires. They kept going, tugging, and pulling, and those little beagles dragged that Christmas tree half-way across the room before my brother tackled one and Mom grabbed the other one by the collar so I could untangle the cords from around her legs. We threw the blankets over them and carried them back outside to their pen. No one said a word, but we went straight to work on the Christmas tree. We had it all put back up before Dad got home. No one said a word about what had happened.