IPPY Award winning author

Accidental Christmas Tree

/ J. F. Riordan / 39 Comments

I have mentioned my friend from sixth grade before. We met at age eleven, and our friendship was cemented soon after. Our math teacher commented on our report cards that we giggled too much in class. We have a deep mutual commitment which has lasted these many years, and although we are very different personalities, we seem to share a general tendency toward lunacy.

We don’t live in the same town, but close enough, and I was on my way to her house yesterday to see her Christmas decorations, have some lunch, and, because she really is a good friend, drop off some papers pertaining to a small dilemma (See: accounting; loathe.) I was a tiny bit late, so I was tooling along the country roads at a nice clip. 1

However, as I turned down her familiar rural road, I noticed that the rickety farm market and petting zoo that has been there for decades was selling Christmas trees. I slowed, and saw there were some good-sized trees. For the next mile I debated whether I should buy the tree myself rather than going on a family outing. It was too far to come on a school night, and the place wouldn’t be open after dark anyway. And honestly, after a basketball game all an eighth-grader can think about is eating.

So after a pleasant few hours of lunch, conversation, and admiration of decorations (my friend has, among other things, a magnificent hand-carved Italian creche with bespoke lighting), we turned to the subject of trees. “Want to come?”

She did.

It was a balmy December day, almost 50 degrees, which in Wisconsin means mud. We pulled into the dirt drive of the place. There were no other customers, but an eclectic collection of barnyard animals in pens all around: turkeys, various sorts of chickens, a donkey, a sheep, several types of goats, emus, and at least one vociferous pig.

A guy with a shovel looked up from where he was standing.

“Are you open? We’ve come to look at Christmas trees.”

“Nah,” the guy answered cheerfully. “I’d rather shovel pig s*&t.”

He set down his shovel and came to speak with us. “I have to tell ya: Did you see that trailer driving off?”

We confessed that we had not.

“That was the boss. He’s gone down to the other field with a load of manure. His wife has cancer, and it’s her treatment day, no one else is here, and I’m not allowed to touch the electronic stuff. So, you’d have to pay cash. That’s all I’m allowed to do.”

I did not have cash.

“But,” he continued, “you can go up to the quickie mart on the corner where they have an ATM.”

I agreed that we could do this, but suggested we look first so we knew how much we would need. So we tromped down the drive through the mud, I in my new black suede boots, to look at the trees.

Balsams have been hard to come by, lately. I like frasiers; they’re very pretty trees, but there’s nothing like the scent of a balsam. There was a blight a few years back, and it takes years to replenish. But here was a lot full of them.

We picked our way through various forms of manure. “Watch out for the poop!” became the mantra.

We found a tree. Just eight feet. It had a sparse side that could be turned toward the window, but it was the right combination of fullness and height. Just as we were calculating the purchase price with tax in preparation for our trip to the cash machine, the farmer returned with an empty trailer, and we were spared a trip to the quickie mart. Total cost: $66.

The checkout was a strange little place, with a greenhouse/gift shop that had a slightly creepy Miss Havisham vibe, but we soon escaped outside, where the tree was netted, and ready to go.

“I can’t put the tree on the car,” the farmhand informed us. “Liability.”

An emu lurked preternaturally in the distant trees.

My friend and I looked at each other. “We only have to go a mile,” she said. “Tom is home, and he’ll have something.”

“I got twine,” said our man, helpfully.

This is probably the moment to point out that we’d had champagne with lunch.

The tree was very light and I settled it on the roof of the car and opened the windows. Our friend handed us twine and without touching anything, explained how to weave the twine among the branches for extra security. Having never done this before, I was happy to have expert advice. We bumbled along for fifteen minutes or so, because I really didn’t want to have to ask Tom for another in a lifetime of favors.

It wasn’t until we were finished and ready to go that the farmer reappeared, and started to laugh. “I think you’ve forgotten something.”

We looked at each other, then at the car, and light dawned. We’d tied the car doors shut.

The farmer chortled. “I’ll get the scissors.”

“No,” Julie said. “We can just crawl in from the back.”

Now, I have a small car, as anyone who has seen photos of my German Shepherds’ sweetly bent ears can attest. But I am reasonably agile, and the whole thing seemed simple enough. I climbed in the back, and as I contemplated my move, I realized that the space was more limited than I had anticipated. Fully aware of my audience, and possibly somewhat compromised in my judgment, I crawled into the front, only to find myself stuck with my feet in the air, my head on the front seat.

I started to laugh, and could not stop. I lay helplessly, unable to move and barely able to breathe. Tears ran backwards down my face.

My friend was in the back seat doing the same. I could hear male snorts outside.

“Move the seat back,” called the farmer. But that meant getting myself in a position where I could reach the button on the outside of the seat. Finally able to move, I wriggled my way to find the button, and then found it impossible to get my legs under the steering wheel. My knee landed on the horn. There was another lengthy bout of deranged laughter.

When we drove away, securely entwined, we all wished one another a Merry Christmas.

Julie, unwilling to copy my methods, sat in the back. “Well,” she said, “we just killed thousands of cancer cells.”

A mile down the road, Tom waited on the driveway with scissors to cut us out, and a ball of twine to re-tie the tree.

Our plans for a post-basketball family event would have to be something else.

We went out for sushi instead.

  1. Sidebar: I tend to amble when the dogs are in the car because I don’t want to toss them around, but when I’m alone, I like a good corner. This has softened my views on round-abouts of which Wisconsin has far too many for no particular reason. But they can be fun. ↩︎

Small Oversight

/ J. F. Riordan / 27 Comments

Life can be busy sometimes, what with eighth grade basketball practice, slope intercepts, multiple broken appliances, Christmas preparations, and hauling ten eighth-graders to and from an escape room. So somehow, we have managed to wait too long to buy our Christmas tree.

I bought a small one for the library as I do every year, and mostly handled it myself. But our main tree, the one that has to go to the ceiling, is more of a family project, and finding the right time to shop for it has been tricky.

I expressed my concern to my husband last night. “We live in Wisconsin,” my husband pointed out. “The land of Christmas trees.” And it’s true. The trees are harvested in August, then stored underwater in river beds until it’s time to ship across the country. But somehow the supply seems more limited than usual. We always buy our tree from a family who set up at the motel parking lot. They are from “Up North”. They are cheerful guys with rosy faces and thick Wisconsin accents. They are part of our tradition, and when their postcard comes every November we welcome it as a sign of the season. But when I drove past yesterday they only had two sizes left: Too small and WAYYY too big. The local Optimists Club, who sell trees to raise funds for scholarships, were also down to a dozen or so small, but pretty trees. Same with our family-run nursery, and the cut-your-own lot a bit out of town was already closed.

Now, as a confession, last year, when our worries about dried-out trees and fires were fresh in our minds, I bought a splendid fake tree from Balsam Hill. It looks very real, probably, and as a bonus, all the lights are already on it. I am stickler for lights, and yet it is a job I dread in both the putting-on and the taking-off of them. But somehow, for this Christmas with the family coming from France and Washington, it seems wrong to have a fake tree as our main tree. I just can’t seem to do it. And so, it’s still sitting in its box in our attic, doubtless inhabited by singing mice.

We will have to go on a tree hunt tonight after the basketball game. (What is the opposite of “undefeated”?)

It may come down to the fake tree after all.

Gratuitous Dog Photo

Auggie patiently snoozing while I work. No fire; it will be 55 degrees today.

Morning around here

/ J. F. Riordan / 15 Comments

There was a spectacular sky this morning. A front coming through created a sharp diagonal line of clouds moving against the hot pink and orange of sunrise. Two great horned owls conversed at some length. I bestirred myself from my writing and stepped out onto the back stairs to look out over the woods, listen, and breathe. It’s cool this morning, cool enough for snow. But there’s only rain in the forecast.

Eli did not bark at the grandson when he came downstairs. We never know with Eli. He has a strange case of situational amnesia. But now grandson’s off to school, and Eli’s cuddling with his gorilla. Auggie has finished staring at the treat jar because I stopped paying attention after four, and has now settled on the couch.

The day stretches ahead with many tasks.

All is well.

Escape Room

/ J. F. Riordan / 55 Comments

Well.

I used to teach Lord of the Flies, but somehow its theme hadn’t occurred to me in the context of a birthday party. It’s interesting–and as a former teacher of teenagers this should not be news to me–how individual boys can be just fine, but a group of ten transforms into something new. And I now know the exact number at which the change occurs.

Oh, did I say escape?

We had two cars. My little hatchback fit four boys; the rented Pacifica took the other six. The difference between four and six is significant. Because on each 30 minute portion of our drive to and from the Escape Room, the mix of four was civilized; the mix of six was not. It may have helped that I had assumed the teacher mode with my group, occasionally making ironic comments that kept them in check. My husband preferred to adopt a cover of anthropology, quietly studying the locals’ habits. This was a less successful approach.

We had planned to drop the critters boys off at the Escape Room and sally forth into the chic environs of Milwaukee’s Third Ward for an hour. When I found a parking spot on the street, my husband stopped, too, and let his group out so he could find a spot while we went on. At least, this was how he explained it. I now know he had ulterior motives.

It took a minute or two to finagle the parking app (How are these convenient?? A quick plug of quarters would have handled the whole thing in seconds.) while the marauders wandered out of sight around the corner making more noise than one might have expected.

We arrived in the small warehouse lobby. I turned my back to register our arrival–to the accompaniment of the most astonishing volume of boys–and when I turned back, they were literally jumping off the furniture. I’m serious. I commandeered the situation with my teacher voice.

It was at this point that the management informed me that an adult would have to accompany them into the room. Delightedly, I texted my husband the good news. I knew he would be thrilled to have this experience with his beloved grandson. This, however, turned out not to be the case. His exact words texted to me were “Can’t you ESCAPE??????” And then, “FUQ”.

I have seen the billboards for this adventure over the years, and each time my inner voice has said, “Sweet Jesus, No.” What a nightmare to be locked into some dank room and find it fun. Now, one of us had to go. And it turned out to be the one with mild claustrophobia.

If you have ever seen film of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, you will note that while the bulls run when released, they do not howl like banshees. This was not the case when the door was closed to the escape room. I took a deep breath and found a corner to sit on the floor and send retribution texts to my husband.

There was no cooperation, no leadership, and very little thoughtful investigation. They were simply romping through the room, banging on things, pulling on things, and causing far more trouble than a litter of giant puppies. And they made an ungodly amount of noise.

There was a bar setup–it was a spy-themed escape–and there were rows of empty plastic wine bottles. At one point they began hitting one another with the bottles. I mean, these were not friendly raps. They were pushing one another into a corner while beating one another on the head. I felt like a prison guard. Sighing, I intervened. “Give me the bottles. NOW.” Meekly, they each handed them over. I had to explain to one of them to stop punching people.

Meanwhile, my husband is texting me. “I’m SO sorry.” And “How long do we have to have them in the house?”

If the intercom voice who was present to give clues and keep an eye on things had comments to make, these went mostly unheard. At one point, when the boys unlocked a door into the next room, there was a big metal box which had signs in big letters saying “DO NOT TOUCH.” Naturally, everyone had to run their hands over it.

Eventually, upon reaching the third room, which had a “DO NOT CROSS RED LINE” marking on the floor, pretty much everyone crossed the red line, resulting in a hideous siren going off. After about a dozen of these events, the management came in.

“You’re done.”
“Did we lose?” The boys asked. The manager assumed a look of weary irony. “You lost.”

He then told them to stop making so much noise.

I went up to the startled group of adults in the lobby. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I turned to the boys and raising my voice told them to wait outside on the sidewalk. “DO NOT GO ANYWHERE.”

I asked the manager if he had whiskey.

My husband texted me from his hiding place. “The ride home will take 4 years in Grandparent Time. It’s like dog years, but longer.”

As we drove home I began laughing out loud.

“Why are you laughing?” one of them asked.

“I was remembering you guys hitting each other with the bottles.”

We got home in one piece, and the boys tumbled downstairs into our basement family room. I had spent two days cleaning, cooking, shopping, and organizing. Or, as my husband put it, “putting doilies on things.” There was enough food for thirty adults, tons of candy, chips, and cupcakes. My husband poured himself a glass of wine. I reminded him that he owed me a carry-out margarita from the taco place down the hill. I could hear the clanking of the weight machine downstairs. “Make it two. Each.”

After a few moments, our grandson came upstairs, a somewhat anxious look on his face. “Can we go outside to play hide and seek?” I summoned a silent prayer of thanks. “Of course.”

There was a rumbling on the stairs as they came racing up to put on their shoes. It was dark. It had been raining much of the day, and it was going to be muddy. I didn’t care.

It was beginning to snow. I had imposed upon our dear friend, Scary Lisa, to wrangle the dogs, and the three of us now settled into our snug library to drink margaritas while ten boys, stripped to their waists, whooped and hollered, and ran rampant through the woods. I texted the neighbors in warning.

For the boys, this was clearly the unforgettably wonderful part of the day. Elliott said later: “Oh, Grandma, that was the best time ever!”

As half-naked teenagers streaked past the windows, we adults looked at one another. “You know,” my husband said, “it’s like Christmas morning, when you give the kid an extravagant present, and he spends all day playing with the box. Next time, it will be Chex Mix and a bonfire.”

One boy disappeared and was unfindable for twenty minutes. One lost his shirt. One fell off a wall. There was a sprained ankle.

Margaritas never tasted so good.

Oh, and by the way, DO NOT TAKE TEENAGERS TO AN ESCAPE ROOM.

Also: There will be no next time.

The end.

***
And now for your gratuitous dog photo.

Essential (as opposed to gratuitous)Dog Photos

/ J. F. Riordan / 43 Comments

I am still in a state of wonder over Auggie’s recovery, and seeing him here in his usual pose on the couch fills me with emotion. He is vigorous and joyous, insatiably hungry, and insatiably ball-mad. I have already lost track of the exact day we got the cone off him, so I went back to look at the photos on my phone, which I use as a diary of my life.

That’s when I came upon these, from the day the collar came off, less than a month ago. Until the stitches were out and healing, he was not allowed to come on the bed. This was upsetting to us all.

Until this moment, Auggie had never allowed Eli to love him before.

Dogs are pure soul.

Here’s Auggie this morning, all snoozy and safe.

I am grateful beyond words.

Christmas Dilemma

/ J. F. Riordan / 41 Comments

The adults on my side of the family are in a quandary about Christmas gifts. We don’t see each other very often since I am the only one not on the east coast. Some of us love the spirit of the thing, and love the connection of everyone giving something to everyone. Some are concerned about the cost. Some of us live carefully edited lives, either by choice or by circumstance (i.e., a tiny NY apartment). Some of us don’t edit, and therefore have too much stuff.

What to do? If any of you have come upon a nice solution beyond simply exchanging names, please offer your advice. Lest you think we are keeping this to the last minute, we are.

But we’ve been debating since last year.

***

Today’s gratuitous dog photo:

He has an itchy nose.

By the way, it can be complicated to comment or like a post here. But if you sign up for WordPress and/or get their app, it is much simpler. Just a thought.

Paperwork

/ J. F. Riordan / 49 Comments

My niece and her husband—both executives at a big company—run a paperless home. They don’t write notes on paper; they receive and pay their bills electronically, and, well, I don’t know what else, because I cannot imagine living that way.

This is not a criticism. It is a confession.

My husband and I are writers. But while we both use computers most of the time, we do regularly make handwritten notes. When I need to download information for myself, I find that the simple writing of lists in a notebook is somehow refreshing to my mind. My notebook sits next to me now as I write, and on my bedside table at night. I carry it with me into the grocery store and prop it up on the seat of the cart. It often sits on the passenger seat in my car. It travels with me, so I can write on the plane when electronics are prohibited. I will use my phone to make notes if I have to, but I always prefer paper.

My preference for paper extends to a preference for a particular notebook, which seems no longer to exist anywhere in the world, but of which I have an extensive backstock. Occasionally in an idle moment I still search for them, but my hope is gone.

I like pens, too, and I am particular about them. This is not to say that I prefer anything expensive or fancy. The office cheapo store has perfectly fine pens. But they have to feel right in my hand, and they have to move across the paper in a certain way. When I had a day job and traveled often, there was a certain luxury hotel in Washington D.C. whose conference room pens I absolutely coveted. I still have two, and try to spare them for special occasions. The truth is, I love office supplies of every kind, really. Since childhood I have enjoyed a leisurely meander through the aisles of paper, pens, and whatnots. I have always been drawn to those bound accounting books, even though I have an absolute horror of accounting. I don’t buy them, but I eye them speculatively. I am also drawn to boxes of crayons.

But the thing is, we are drowning in paper. Most of it comes in the mail, and it is of no interest whatsoever. That’s easy to get rid of. But aside from the advertising stuff or the solicitations for donations, much of it—despite its unimportance—is unsafe to throw away. It has account numbers, or personal information that you really don’t want floating around. I used to have a shredder, but after a few iterations the shredders went the way of my robot cleaners: Fun while they’re working, but that’s not for long. And so the paper sits around on my kitchen counter, and later slithers out of the bonfire burn bag in the closet and escapes under the door, making a mess in the back hall. You know why I can’t wait for snow? So I can have a big bonfire and get rid of it all.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

And Now for Your Gratuitous Dog Photos

Everybody yawn.

Old Finds

/ J. F. Riordan / 38 Comments

The thing I miss about Tw*%^tter is the little pockets of community we built among ourselves. The connection was mostly about animals, and then mostly about dogs, but there were also the writers, photographers, farmers, and scientists whose work you could take interest in, and the neighborly people whose company warmed on a bleak day.

Among the unlikely acquaintances I made was a bookseller in a little town in England, whose job was to comb through estate sales, the ruins of well-loved libraries, and mountains of cardboard boxes dumped like abandoned puppies, rescuing old or even ancient books. At first he would tweet about some intriguing find and I would reply requesting a price. But soon I had given him a hopeful list, and he began keeping an eye out for me.

The arrival of these books was an event. They always came beautifully wrapped in brown paper, or sometimes in the pages of old magazines. There was twine. The packaging suggested to me the perfection one used to expect from a purchase in London: very much not shoved into a bag. There were no plastic bubbles.

Among the purchases I made were a tiny shirt-pocket sized Book of Common Prayer, a 19th century book of beautifully painted pull-out English maps (in an unusual shape, and filled with geographic detail unlike anything I’ve seen elsewhere), first editions of some favorite authors, and other very specific and odd literary delights. One of these is a vintage edition of Beeton’s Complete Letter Writer for Ladies and Gentlemen; Containing Love Letters, Complimentary Notes, Invitations, Business Letters, Applications; With Domestic, Fashionable, Friendly, and Formal Correspondence.

I find it endlessly entertaining.

I can’t find an exact date in it, but it was published in late nineteenth century London, and sold for One Shilling. It is a thing out of time, since letter writing is no longer our primary means of communication, and since we live in such a graceless era, when manners in particular and civilization in general are all up for grabs.

It is amusing, too, in its formality and superannuated language. There is the sharply worded note from a father to a fractious boy at boarding school; the disapproving note from an aunt to a newly-engaged girl; letters enquiring into the character of servants; and, as the title promises, love letters: all earnest, some moving, and some rather improbable (“Answer to a Missionary’s Proposal Negatively”).

I am happy to live in our era, with its science, medical advances, and convenience. But I do wish that along with all our advantages, we still lived among thoughtful, gracious people who understood that formality was an act of respect and dignity, and who had the time to ponder proposals of marriage from well-meaning missionaries.

First Day of Advent

/ J. F. Riordan / 29 Comments

You will have to believe me that a magnificent buck was outside my window this morning. I looked away for a moment, and when I looked back he had melted into the camouflage of leaves and bark, still, invisibly, there.

I have come to believe that the invisible things are often the most important. These are the things we feel intensely and sense around us: maybe passion, maybe tension, maybe danger, maybe the proud buck in the trees.

Advent is an invisible thing, too, covered in mystery and in the deepening darkness of the earth. I don’t think it’s contradictory, or even surprising, that in this time when the earth stands sleeping we should await, with hope, the promise of light and new life. Because whether you accept the theology or not, those things are coming, literally and visibly.

But it is the invisible that beckons, that clutches the heart and draws us deeper.

And as winter comes, that silent moving of the universe is the darkest, deepest mystery of all. What is eternal? Can some part of us be eternal, too? What is this thing that I am, that wakes, and dreams, and sees the stars, and speaks to the souls of the trees? Why am I here, this small thing, trembling at my mortality while soaring out to meet the edge of sky?

The human soul has seasons, and the earth, wheeling through darkness and light, prepares us for them.

We wait. And we watch, filled with hope and awe.