Tree tribulations provide appropriate allegory
WHEN I announced my Christmas tree would be something special this year, nobody skimped on the scepticism.
As my loyal readers (all two of you) will know, Christmas trees are not my strong suit.
Over the years, the offspring have cringed at the lopsided bits of macrocarpa whacked off the hedge and hastily decorated in a style which could only be described as confused toddler.
I loved those trees for their delicious orangey fragrance, but family members did not consider that overcame their shortcomings.
The less said about the year I attempted to turn a pineapple into a table centrepiece to resemble a Christmas tree, the better. Only my culinary arts queen daughterinlaw gave me points for trying. (Her own Christmas decorating is world class.)
This year, because Covid19 has turned my knitting hobby into a frightening compulsion, I was tempted to knit a tree. Everyone can breathe a sigh of relief about that likely monstrosity because when I realised such trees were a thing, it was too late to embark on one.
So, what to do? I have never fancied the fake tree, but I was impressed with the news a friend’s daughter used to store her tree smothered in clingwrap, so she did not need to faff about decorating it the next year. Remove the wrap and voila! I am not sure what she uses now she is cutting down on plastic, but I have faith she can solve that problem.
In my case, the fickle finger of fate or the dastardly digit of destiny as my late husband liked to say, stepped in. Well, gale force winds did.
Obscured behind the car parked on the grass, the plight of the plucky selfsown ngaio at the corner of the lawn remained unseen for a couple of days.
When I found it had been upended, I feared that would be the end of it.
My companion was more optimistic. We could right it and prop it up. In the process we discovered it had settled on top of a concrete pad. We would need to top it and wrench it and move it to a new site.
He struck on the brilliant idea of digging out the offspring’s overgrown sandpit contained in a tractor tyre set into the ground, removing the tyre and replanting it there. In the meantime, we kept the tree roots happily hydrated after wrapping them in the recently replaced tatty old barbecue cover.
Having hatched this plan, he left town, leaving me to execute it. A displaced sand dune later, execution was not far from my thoughts when I could not find my crowbar to lever out the tyre.
With the help of a borrowed crowbar, I managed to partially lift the tyre, but lacked the oomph to get it upright so I could roll it out of its shallow grave. I was sure I should be able to do it. Not for the first time, I wished I had paid more attention in physics classes. (My sisterinlaw assuaged my guilt on that, reminding me that teacher was particularly boring. Maybe it is his fault I have zero interest in the night sky. I love the blame game.)
I considered possibilities involving ropes but ruled out dragging it out with the car because I do not have a tow bar. Damping down fantasies of avoiding Christmas festivities laid up in hospital after being squashed by the tyre, I gave up.
When my companion eventually returned, with minimal help from me we had the tyre rolling free within about five minutes. When I bleated about how irritating it was I didn’t have the strength to do the job myself, he blithely decreed it was all about technique. Technique, schmechnique.
The tree is now replanted. It is still alive and has even pushed out the odd flower, although one of its lower limbs had to be lopped off after more wind assaults.
It is yet to be decorated because of the risk of rain and further wind drama. Waiting patiently in the wings for their moment to show off are tinsel trimmings tangled from doing goodness knows what while they were stored, baubles cleverly made from recycled Christmas cards and sent by a friend from England 30 years ago, a handsewn decoration crafted by another friend during the patchwork craze, and a dacron snowman made by one of the offspring.
When I confront the inevitable whanau scoffing about this mangled mess, I will point out its symbolism. This unimpressive native tree with its strangely sentimental accoutrements has ended its unsettling year battered and bruised, or even downright ugly, but with some nurturing it has the opportunity to put down fresh roots and thrive. I am prepared for that to be greeted with a loud chorus of ‘‘Whaddever’’.