A little story.
One of the ordinary, overlooked pleasures in life is remembering old times; to stroll down memory lane and swoon under old mistletoe. We live so much of our lives staring forward and glancing backward, Yuletide offers a chance to flip the script; to glance forward and stare backward. In this spirit I thought I’d share a story from the season, a few years ago.
It was a wintry wonderland in Boston. I was young, in love, and drove a scrappy Honda CR-V named Ralph up and down the Charles River, from Cambridge to Fenway, where my then girlfriend, now wife was living in a cramped studio apartment. All was jolly, except that come Christmastime she had no stockings, no bells, no elves, or festive furnishings around the place, and I thought this unacceptable — so I bought her a tree on a whim, without her knowing.
It was a big, burly tree. I handpicked it at a neighborhood stand and dragged it down the hill to Ralph. I rammed it in, slammed the door, and whoosh! I was off, with branches bouncing every which way and the sappy trunk knocking my shoulder as I drove.
I drove fast and I drove free. It was like delivering a love letter, but better. I know looking backward it was also a fool’s errand, and I was the fool, and a very happy fool at that. I never stopped to consider if her tiny apartment could actually accommodate a full size tree. I never thought to ask if she even wanted a tree in the first place. I just bought it. But how could I see any of this then, with my pedal to the metal and the wintry mix blinking across my windshield? The race to her house was tonic in the blood; the tree was more than a tree — it was a triumph, a trumpet blast; lovelier than a bouquet, and prettier than a Porsche with a bow on top.
I was as giddy as a middle schooler before the dance. All drive long I kept thinking to myself, oh goody she’ll never guess. When I called to tell her I was coming I had to button my enthusiasm; and I kept glancing over my shoulder at the green beauty l had plucked. Cello music swirled in the air. The steering wheel was a drum kit; I scatted and bopped and caroled, and soon I was there, carried on the wings of exuberance.
When I arrived the only way up was a narrow back staircase — which, given the girth of the tree, allowed only one plausible option: a dead sprint from the basement to the fourth floor, praying that no one else was coming the other way, or they were done for.
Without a moment’s hesitation I went for it. I remember the sound it made on those echoey stairs, rasping and clattering with thumps that sounded like I was leading a pair of pack mules up a hill.
I made it, though. Breathless on arrival, and flushed from the dash. Restraining my grin, I scooted the tree down the hall, stood it upright, and knocked at the door. I don’t know what she thought when she saw me, but staring backwards over the years, the details of that scene strike me as symbols of what our life together has become. I can still see her head peeking out of the doorway; the neat part in her hair, the cozy sweater, the big skeptical eyes.
And for the first time I can see myself too. There I am — the fumbling romantic; the woolly mitted boy in love, with loose twine in his pocket and dirty clumps of ice in his boots and mud at the door — and needles, so many pine needles strewn every inch from the doorway to the car; a great fragrant train of green, a poor man’s petals.
I was trying so hard to impress…
There are certain moments in our brief earthy life, when we shed our hermit crab fears and stand on the cold shore of beauty; exposed but unafraid; when we put our hearts on the line, and plunge, and do the unreasonable thing. And somehow it works.
I’m glad to say she kept the tree, and she kept me too.
I offer this little story in thanks for the good times behind us and with a note of encouragement to seize the season. If you’re going to be romantic this Christmas, I say be it. Don’t do what I did. Do something better. Find your tree. The tall evergreen that will bristle in your memory for years to come. When you’ve found it, do not waste a moment. Fly across the city on the fumes of your reckless desire, dash up a weary staircase and lumber into a warm apartment with a song on your lips, and your quick heart beating against your sap-stained parka.
Say ‘I love you this much and more…Will you have me?’
Then wait.
show & tell 