January

I stay away when the people in my family get the Christmas stuff out.

Over the years my kids have put the tree up and I have learned to ignore the obviously wrong places where they put everything. It keeps harmony in the house to just let it go. Typically, I’ll just enjoy the tree throughout the Christmas season and well beyond. Everyone wants to get the tree up in December faster than a bat out of the very bowels of hell itself. In hours, the house goes from a normal midwestern home to a winter damn wonderland that will give Rudolph himself Type II just looking at it.

But then after Christmas, the tree doesn’t go away. “We have to leave the tree up until Three Kings’ Day.” is what I hear week after New Year’s from the Chosen One and our children. Yep. I don’t know when that started, because we don’t celebrate Three Kings’ Day. I don’t think St. Joseph even celebrated Three Kings’ Day. He was probably tired of all the Christmas decorations and wanted to get on with life, but noooooo. He had to wait for the 3 Wise Guys to show up with more stuff. I used to point out that I appreciated the house doesn’t usually look like the inside of one of those raided trailer homes on “Cops”, but I just want my house back and I want the Santa coffee cups put away. People talk you know.

I know, I know. I could do it myself. But why? I have two very able-bodied children who can set up a Merry Christmas theme park in one afternoon in early, very early December. They should be able to pack up all the goodness and goodwill and merry gentlemen in at least a week’s time and put it back under the stairs where it all belongs – or at least send it to North Korea or Iran.

This year the oldest went back to college in Chicago and the youngest was off at basketball practice. The Christmas tree laughed at me as I walked past it today – one day after Three Kings’ Day – which we incidentally did not celebrate. Luckily it’s an artificial tree or it would have burnt the house down as soon as the furnace turned on this late in the season. We also have one of those little talking trees that has eyes that pop open and sings a Christmas song when you walk past it. I took another sip of my coffee out of my Santa mug and made an executive decision. The singing tree started singing and I backhanded it toward the little Santa figure that is always looking in a little refrigerator with his ass sticking out and shaking as he wonders where all his “cookies went to . . . ho, ho, ho.”. The little tree took him out and they both spun around on the wood floor with Santa lamenting his cookies and the tree singing Christmas carols.

I propped open the front door, pushed the storm door and held it open with a chair – then I went over and got the Christmas tree. It was heavy with all the Christmas joy hanging on it, but I managed to wrestle it to the front porch and pushed it off the top step. It was then a matter of just grabbing the top and pulling it across the yard to the curb. It was still pretty heavy and the top of the damn thing came off in my hands – complete with the angel topper. I decided to grab the next section and crouched down low to get a better angle. I closed my eyes to anticipate the resistance the tree would offer, but it moved easily. I opened my eyes and saw Nanna had picked up the tree stand so it wouldn’t anchor into the lawn. She was straining with the weight and I was worried she would hurt herself. She’s old as sin itself and not getting any younger. She was struggling under the Elmer Fudd style hunting hat we got her for Christmas and I suggested we set it down. She dropped her end, cursed at it and whipped out her Glock to point right in the middle of the tree.

“Nanna, do not shoot the tree!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m on the other side.”

“Oh.”

We decided what we needed was a third hand to keep the tree stand off the ground and then we could both lift the tree itself. I went in and got “Ralphie”. He’s out new little Tibetan Terrier we got about 2 months ago. He spends the days in the studio with me and is all of about 8lbs, but he’s got a great attitude. He’s a terrier mix and just doesn’t know how to give up at anything. I put a reindeer-antler-dog-hat-thing on Ralphie, did a shot of schnapps with Nanna from her winter flask, and we set to work. Ralphie did his part, but it was too heavy for him to go much more than a foot or so. Nanna ran back in and got Bill, our cat – put a reindeer antler-dog-hat thing on him and harnassed them both to the tree stand like a couple of Santa’s reindeer and we set off again. We had a little trouble getting over the garden fence, but we eventually made it all the way to the sidewalk. We counted to three before throwing the tree and ornaments and angels and garland and lights and everything else onto the street next to the curb. Some of the Christmas balls popped as they hit the concrete and Nanna drew her Glock again. I quickly suggested another schnapps and she holstered up to get out her flask.

I adjusted her Elmer Fudd hat for her and we did a couple more shots out by the street as we watched the decorations glimmer in the street light. I asked Bill and Ralphie to pick up any straggling decorations and Nanna offered me a Cuban cigar.

“Fidels! Nanna, where’d you get these? I thought you and Fidel were through?”

“Oh we are. Have been for years. I don’t take his calls. He’s all, ‘I’m sorry this and I’m sorry that’.”

“Where did you get these?” I asked.

“I have an acquaintance at the TSA.” she said as she lit mine with a blue-tip match and then turned the flame to her cigar.”.

We stood in the winter air and surveyed the street. The neighbors kept looking out the windows all up and down the block. Light from within their homes strobed on and off each time they pulled their curtains back and forth to look at us and then quickly hiding.

“Did you vote in the caucus the other night Nanna?” I asked through clenched teeth and a billowing cloud of exquisitely nauseating cigar smoke.

Her arms were crossed and she held her cigar so the smoke would waft just underneath the brim and ear flaps of her hunting hat. “What the hell for?” she said.

“Aren’t you a registered Republican?” I asked.

“Well, yes. But they all suck.” she said.

She added: “All the people in this damn country and that bunch of clowns is the best we can come up with?”

I nodded.

“J. Edgar would have had them all pistol-whipped for even running.” She took a big drag and blew smoke rings out to the street. “Did you?”.

“Did I what?”

“Did you vote at one of those stupid caucuses?”

“No, I don’t belong to either party.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t be part of any group that will have someone like me as a member.”

Nanna smiled and took another drag – “I remember when I said that to Groucho.” she said.

I knocked the cherry out of my cigar and gave it back to her. “Keep this Nanna, I’m one drag away from a pack a day – I can’t be doing this stuff.”

She took the cigar and put it in her coat pocket. “How did you quit smoking anyway – hypnotist?”

I shook my head.

“Opium.” I said.

She nodded and puffed her cigar. “Who won the Iowa caucus anyway?”

“Who knows?”

“Who cares?”

“What do you mean Nanna?”

“All of them are completely out of touch and have no clue whatsoever – I mean that in a nice way.”

“Yep, who cares is right.”

“Maybe something good will happen this year.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“I suppose.”

“Happy New Year, Nanna.”

“Well thank goodness for the TSA though.”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t get much worse, can it Nanna?”

“Oh, yeah. It can get worse.”

“I suppose..”

. . . . and so the scene pulls back to view a middle-aged artist drinking schnapps with his heat-packing, mildly psychotic, cigar-smoking Nanna in her Elmer Fudd hat with earflaps while his small dog and cat wearing those reindeer-antler-dog things stare at a decorated Christmas tree lying in the street on a cold January night under a streetlight in Des Moines . . . .

“Let’s mail this thing to Iran.”

JohnStillmunks.com