The Year I Ruined Christmas

The Year I Ruined Christmas

I can’t go home. I am down the street at Ragin Cajun watching a couple of football games – Rams-Bills and Bucs-Panthers – and I can’t go home. Because I have ruined Christmas. I have failed in a way more inexplicable, more devastating, than even Thursday night’s Saints game. Christmas held sacred by the faithful will, of course, survive my sin, but I fear a colorless holiday season lies in store for me, as I am sure to be visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past Perfect. Woe unto me!

Here’s what happened. My wife, Lisa, and I live in an apartment with nine-foot ceilings. We have a perfect place for a Christmas tree on an end table in front of a window. Last year, we bought a six-foot tree and cut it down to four feet because we thought we should get a “table top” tree. It was lovely – small, for sure, but it was fine – our first Christmas in our new home was cozy and meaningful. What more could you ask of it?

But. (You were expecting a but, weren’t you?) But, two feet of empty air hovered above last year’s tree, empty, bereft of artificial wonder yet abundant in possibilities. I like big Christmas trees and so does Lisa, so this year, after tedious conceptualizing, measuring and remeasuring, I decided we could have a six-foot tree. This year, I would bring in a bigger, better tree; a tree more full of the joy and wonder of the season.

But I messed up the whole business. Royally.

Last night, we stopped by a lovely Christmas tree lot for a preliminary review of the greenery. We even kissed among the boughs in the moonlight, under the glow of the Kroger Signature Store sign.

This morning we returned to select, in better light, The Tree, as we have selected trees all 28 years of our marriage. It takes us longer to find The Tree these days because for 18 years we took Shadow, our beloved Chow-Lab mutt, with us to the tree lot, left her in my truck (it was December, quit judging) and when we thought we had a good tree, we would show it to Shadow and she would let us know if it was the right one. Easy and failproof. Now we are on our own, but we are capable.

Last night, I pulled out a tape measure and calculated the maximum length of tree I could bring home, taking into account that the plastic yet totally holy lighted star I scored at Home Depot would add four inches to the overall height. I also wanted the tree not to scrape the ceiling. I wanted to leave four inches of rarefied holiday air between the top of the star and the ceiling so the whole thing would not look cramped or forced – it would look perfect.

Mind you, I am more than a little qualified for this task. I am a perfectionist who has built fences and gates and taught myself how to install crown molding and interior trim that would later make Realtors weep with joy. I have built a lot of things and I own all the power tools. Yes, all of them. I can, for Pete’s sake, purchase a Christmas tree of correct dimensions.

Actually, obviously, I cannot do that. At. All.

To speed up this story: Lisa identified The Tree. A stunning seven-footer (taller than we needed but I would trim it to the perfect height, no worries). She paid for it at the table where they were making wreaths from scrap tree limbs under strands of bare light bulbs draped from aluminum poles. The lady asked if we wanted to pay an extra 20 bucks for a stand. I said yes, for this magnificent specimen would never fit into the “tabletop stand” we used last year. A hundred bucks later we owned The Tree, the Perfect Tree, and a big stand.

Then, in my brilliance, I whipped out my tape measure, wielded it with confidence and showed the boy just where to apply his chainsaw blade and how many rows of limbs to remove from the bottom. When he was finished he had done everything just as instructed. I lifted the top portion of The Tree and showed it to Lisa. Then I saw the look on her face.

Our tree was tiny.

It was shorter than last year’s tree. The actual length of lush greenery useful for lights and ornaments measured about two feet. The rest was bare bottom and skimpy top.

I had ruined our Christmas tree. Lisa, as is her way, gave the little green thing and me a sympathetic smile and never said a discouraging word. We took it home, put it in our new stand and my failure was confirmed. Somehow, I had choked in the final, critical phase of this game. I had blown a 28-3 lead in the Super Bowl.

This was a tree no one could love, I was certain. Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree had been better than this one, for ours was not a pathetic little tree that just needed love. Our tree had been a beautiful thing and I killed it. Our poor tree deserved a funeral. It deserved justice, perhaps revenge.

For Saints fans, this was Hakim Dropped the Ball, and I am Hakim.

This was Moses accidentally breaking the Third Tablet.

Today, I would push back from my iced tea and boudin balls and walk over to talk with the bartender about all this but he looks to be a good man and he does not need, at Christmas time, to gaze into the fathomless abyss of my despair. And so I sit alone and contemplate how to make my way through life from here, alone, guilty, cut short in my prime.

Guy D. Johnson

Guy D. Johnson is a writer and marketing communications professional. Previously an animation studio owner, daily newspaper editor, reporter and photographer, volunteer fireman, railroad bridge gang helper, FM radio station underling and cave guide. He has lived on farmland trusted to the sun and rain; atop a wooded hill; beside great rivers; upon an arid, high plateau; and at the subtropical coast of the Gulf of Mexico. For 20 years, he worked and wrote in New Orleans.