Held Together with Yellowing Tape

I can still see the sheet--torn and wrinkled, held together with yellowing tape. I can picture the battered box containing the limbs, and I can vividly recall the fire drill that ensued as we eagerly grouped them--long, medium and short reds, long, medium and short yellows, long, medium and short blues, and long, medium and short whites. My mom left the grouping to us, while she masterminded the kitchen, rolling, and stirring and icing, sending waves of cinnamon, chocolate and hazelnut throughout the rooms, rewarding our tree-constructing efforts the moment those scrumptious concoctions cooled. And as the four of us worked to transform the house with sights and smells, Christmas music hummed in the background--sometimes, Barry Manilo, sometimes, James Taylor, and if I got my say--sometimes, the Chipmonks.

Looking back, I'm quite certain my father probably didn't enjoy the tree building process quite as much as me, but he indulged us. Always pretending to be excited, always donning the spirit we so looked forward to seeing. I recall loving every single minute. In fact, if my memory serves me correctly, I remember loving it more than any other part of December. Christmas morning belonged to my early-waking brother, but calling out the arrangement, orchestrating the moves, finding the perfect branch for the perfect spot, and then adding the ornaments one-by-one--those directives belonged to me. I loved fussing with the complicated ones--setting Kermit's ice skates evenly on the tinsel, plugging in Santa's workshop, and hooking up the train--and I loved smiling over the silly ones I made in pre-school. I loved the satisfaction of seeing our tree rise from broken pieces strew haphazardly into a box, and I enjoyed the tingling that ensued once the long band of lights blared with the force of electricity and tenderness.

Though most of my friends had real trees, we had an artificial one throughout my entire childhood. Apparently, I broke out in a terrible rash as a child, so this artificial tree experienced every single move and every single Christmas with us. It never shed needles, it never rotted, and it never headed out to the trash once the holiday ended. This tree simply came apart, crawled into a box, and waited for us to call upon its brilliance the following year.

Even though I loved that tree, the moment my doctor confirmed that I outgrew my allergy and could function just fine with a real tree in my house, I promptly set aside my adoration for artificial constructions. I turned, instead, to Christmas tree lots and deep, damp, whiffs of evergreen, excitedly purchasing my first real tree three Christmases ago. Just as I enjoyed my childhood tree, I thoroughly enjoyed that one, decorating her with care, watering her with love, and sitting beneath her for hours, admiring every last needle.

Last night, at midnight, I gazed up at the tree my husband and I had just finished decorating. While it might seem absurd that we pulled into the Tremont Center parking lot at roughly 8 p.m. last night to find a tree, and it might seem even more absurd that we stayed up to midnight to decorate it, neither of us could let the tree sit bare. It looked so lonely in the corner, begging us to cover its wet, muddy branches with lights, balls, stars and dancing reindeer--and we just could not resist.

I went to bed thinking my compulsion was because of the "finisher" complex I seem to frequently battle, but today, I decided it was really something else. Today, I decided that I wanted to act for the same reason I loved the torn, wrinkled piece of paper held together with yellowing tape, and the battered box stuffed with droves of color-coded limbs. I wanted to see the tree rise, I wanted to watch it glow and I wanted to witness it wrap the entire room like a blanket.

My Throne

I'm borrowing a prompt tonight from my friend Betty (Betty Blogs):

A combination of two writing exercises: Try to identify your earliest childhood memory. Write down everything you can remember about it. Rewrite it as a scene. You may choose to do this from your current perspective or from the perspective you had at that age AND/OR Write a 200-word description of a place. You can use any and all sensory descriptions but sight: you can describe what it feels like, sounds like, smells like and even tastes like. Try to write the description in such a way that people will not miss the visual details. (I also played around with present tense)

***

I suppose my nose must have twitched as I assumed a spot on the sideline. Dust and grass clung to the air like a heavy humidity, and I remember that those drops always forged red, raised bumps when the allergist dotted me with manufactured doses of nature once every year. My mother inserted needles into my arm each week to combat the attacks though, so maybe the shots worked better than I can recall. Or maybe I was too busy bursting with pride to ever take notice.

Several times a week, I got to sit in my spot--a little past the out-of-play line in the deep left field. I didn't wear a tiara or sport a fancy dress, but that spot was my throne. From there, I could touch the sky. I could see the expanse of the outfield and the sea of grass that stretched beyond it. I could gaze at an infield in the distance, and grow enchanted by its speckling of light cocoa fairy dust. And I could inhale the delicious fumes of freshly cut grass, sweaty leather and stale chalk. Most importantly though, from my spot in left field--with my tiny little monkey buried into my chest--I could sit and admire my king. I could sit and admire my father.

Dad defended the outfield like a lion. He tracked, chased and caught every potential threat, covering more ground than anyone else who took the field. He hustled with every crack of the bat, backing up bases, eliminating gaps, and launching balls into the infield with precision and authority. And he brought me there to watch it. I got the honor of trotting with him to the outfield. It didn't matter how tired his legs were from running bases, or how many extra innings the game demanded. Every single time he went out to the outfield, he took me with him. And I cherished every collision his cleats made with the earth as he carried me to my most treasured place in the world.

Each spring when the green seeps back into the earth, when the sun starts burning through the winter, and when the dust loosens enough to fly, my mind retreats back to the ball field. Back to the center of my universe. Back to the place where I laughed and dreamed--where I yearned to grow up and be just like him, my lion, my hero.