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2002-11-30 - 3:02 p.m.

When I was a kid we always had a live Christmas tree. Every year Dad and Mom and I would tromp through the December snow at the Christmas Tree Farm and pick out our tree. Always, even as an older (adult) kid, I wanted a huge tree. Dad would comply, then later--covertly--saw off several feet of the base so he could get the damned tree into the family room.

Even in the 60s when the silver tinfoil trees and colored light wheels were mode, we stayed with our traditional live pine. Later, Mom and I continued the tradition of going to the Christmas Tree Farm. I’d pack the saw and mangle the tree, never achieving the clean, straight, easy-to-fit-in-the-base cut. We’d wrestle it home and struggle getting it into the stand. My muttered obscenities, according to Mom, were reminiscent of Dad’s fights with tree and stand.

A few years ago we gave up going to the Christmas Tree Farm. diva and I had found the perfect place to get trees! The Department of Natural Resources was having a tree giveaway! For a buck donation we could get a tree. We needed three trees, so we needed a truck to haul them in. Mom (poor, dear Mom) had friends with a truck and she arranged for diva and me to borrow it. One unseasonably warm December afternoon we set off in our borrowed truck to fetch home our trees.

The DNR had set up their tree lot in the pig barn at the newly constructed Fair Grounds. A sparsely graveled lane led to the barn. We maneuvered the lane, spongy under the truck’s tires, and parked near the barn--the better to load our trees! Forty-five minutes later we had our trees loaded in the truck and a snag in our plans. Another customer had pulled in behind me; I couldn’t back up the lane to exit the Fair Grounds. Patience has never been one of my strong points, so instead of waiting on the car’s owner to move it, I drove off the lane and onto the mushy grounds. My idea was to circle around the car and drive out.

My ideas and my realities are not always synonymous. The truck started to sink into the soggy earth. I gave the truck more gas. diva began to scream.

“STOP it. You’re getting us STUCK!”

“Oh shut up, I know what I’m doin.” And I stomped the gas pedal.

The truck fishtailed and sunk into the muck. I tromped the pedal to the floor, muddy chunks flew from the back tires, splattering the side of the pig barn, and smoke rolled from the truck. I levered the shift to neutral and shut the truck down. Meanwhile, diva was banging against the door to exit the smoking old Ford. The door held tight.

She rolled the window down and stuck her head out, then turned back to me.

“Jesus Christ! You gawdam dumbass, you’ve buried this (effing) truck up over the gawdam doors!” It was an ugly, shrill screech!

Smoke continued to drift from the truck, we continued our noisy bickering and an audience gathered around us. A male audience, all members wearing smug they’re women faces. Finally, one man bravely moved from the crowd and asked if he could help.

diva, in a huff, answered: “Yeah, dammit, get that fool outta this truck!”

Sometime later a tractor was brought into the area, a log chain was hooked to the truck and we were freed from our muddy grave. The remainder of the afternoon--and what little money we had--was spent at the car wash trying to scrub off the evidence of my stupidity and bullheadedness.

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