In 1973 my father purchased an old three story Victorian on 7321Takoma
Avenue. A house with a history a story that started in 1878 when it was built
for one of the two major land owners of Takoma Park M.D. and then transported
in 1931 on logs with horse teams three blocks to it’s present location. This
house would be the place where my childhood would be played out. When I first
saw the house we were to live in it shot into the sky above the strange willow
tree that reached to the sky in with strange arms and green tuffs like
something from a Dr. Suess book. The front of the house had four great windows
stacked on top of each other with a porch to our right with a white icing trim.
In the middle behind a small round azalea that turned pink in the spring like I
swear on of those marshmallow things with the coconut, hostess I think, lay a
big red door as the center piece of a two small pillared cement porch. We
entered the house into a small foyer straight ahead where the stairs to the
second floor on the left hand the dinning room on the right lay the living room
a room with a warning; for the 13 foot ceiling was falling in. We were not
allowed to enter the room until it was finished my father decree, but you can
look in he added. My father pulled back the plastic and we looked into the
gloomy room. It ran the length of the house making the room now large to me
now, at five years old, it was a cavern, a colossal cavern that my father, year
after year, would fill with the largest Christmas tree possible. The ceiling
was twelve feet eight inches which in my father’s eyes could hold a fourteen
foot tree once we cut off the bottom and trimmed the top. I remember the age
old battle my father a piece of twine, two nails, a Christmas tree with an
average base of eight feet which could swallow a small child easily, and the
ever present gravity which never seemed to change tactics during it’s run in
with my father. My father did, every year he would have a new plan. My mother and
I were his accomplishes, following his direction, until at least once the tree
would crash into the wall, or topple on top of me or my mother completely
engulfing one or the other of us. My father once brought a hammer and step
stool into the mix. This was bad and my mother and I new it. My little sister
Alicia was there that year so my mother was ridding herd on her at a safe
distance. My father’s first foray up the step stool twine attached to the tree
hammer in hand leaning in a precarious fashion and then zeroed in on his nail
hook was successful. Well he picked the easy side first. The other lay in the
corner behind the tree. What happened next was one of those things that I
remember in slow motion. I believe it has to do with the fact that I move into
an arena of heightened awareness when in danger which allows me to get away to
safety before doom descends. I was tired of getting caught under the tree, and
without mom’s voice and the natural maternal need to keep her child safe from
harm; I might be in trouble. I’m not really sure how my father’s gyros work but
some how he can manipulate hand tools or machinery with some unseen ability
which I still haven’t figured out. None the less Dad began his assent up the
step stool, hammer in one hand and the nail in the side of his mouth while the
other side of his mouth was telling me which branches I should hold and where
to stand. All this I considered dubious, yet I trusted my Dad, and the tree
though large couldn’t kill me, just hold me to the ground like some great pine
claw with needles for hair. I forgot to tell you in his other hand he had the
twine which of course was looped around the tree I was holding, and looped
around his hand. Now you are starting to see the picture. In short there where
a lot of variables, making my contribution negligible at best, Dad began by
pulling the nail from his mouth and while holding the tree’s weight with the
hand holding the twine which worked well. He raised the hammer zeroed in on his
nail, while his tongue did flips and turns in his mouth, swung, and missed
catching his thumb instead. Everything happened at once, the hand holding the
twine decided to take it personal that it had been hit in the thumb and quite
its job post haste which included letting go of the twine and for good measure
slipping off the wall towards the corner with my dad right behind it. Crash
went Dad behind the tree where there wasn’t enough room for him which set into
motion the law of equal and opposite action; meanwhile I am on the other side
of the tree about to receive the opposite action. Everything went dark green, I
herd my Mom give a little gasp and yell, “Jerry”. I was trapped, yet I had not
let go of the branches I was holding like a good son. I wanted the tree up
other wise no Santa and no Santa means no gifts or maybe I was just holding
fast like a sailor on the stormy seas. My parents quickly pulled the tree up
into the air, and my Mom grabbed my legs and pulled me out. I still had not let
go and found myself with two hands full of pine needles. We got the tree up
finally without any more miss haps. The next year my mom wanted a blue spruce
which is an expensive tree and only comes in smaller sizes. Dad had to deal
with a tree that was only ten feet tall which was a literal reprieve from the
governor. The twine was there as usual for it housed all the Christmas cards we
would receive; some things were not meant to change.
