Season's greetings and hide the power tools and sharp candy
By Burton W. Cole
There is a special joy about setting up the family Christmas tree. I no longer do so, because there also a special sense of danger and doom.
It was the only time of year my wife let me handle real tools. True, the tool was only a handsaw. Even at Christmastime, I was forbidden power tools. My sweetheart figured she'd lose too much tree decorating time driving me to the emergency room or reattaching the living room to the rest of the house.
But the only time I cut myself was on a piece of candy. I was helping my wife and daughter make hard candy for Christmas — by washing the pans between batches.
My wife and daughter claimed afterward that they both had warned me that the freshly poured rock candy absolutely had to be cut into pieces before it hardened to prevent the razor-like edges one gets from snapping off shards later.
They must have been mumbling. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have paid attention to their prattle.
"Whoever heard of someone stabbing themselves with a piece of lemon candy?'' I said as sprinted to the medicine cabinet for a Band-Aid to staunch the bleeding. “I'm like a living Christmas miracle!”
This time, I caught the words she mumbled” “At this rate, perhaps not a living one for long.”
The next year, banished from the kitchen, there I was bent over the bottom of a gooey pine with my once-a-year handsaw.
After hacking the tree down to size and planting it in the living room, my next job every year was to string the lights. This was my job because of my special qualifications — I was the tallest. I was the only one who could reach the whole tree — unless I'd whacked it down to a table centerpiece in my enthusiasm to keep sawing the trunk until I achieved a clean cut. It was the only time a year I was permitted to practice my sawing abilities, and I hated wasting such an opportunity.
We had bunches and bunches of light strings. I believe a well-lit tree is a happy tree. I enjoy humming carols in tune with the buzzing in the pines.
The fish in our 37-gallon tank of water just a tree-length away especially seem to take interest as I plugged in cord upon electrical cord like a spider spinning a supercharged web. I never knew fish could sweat.
Still, nothing I have juiced since beat the time the angel smoked.
The golden-haired gal we found held a candle in each hand. But the "flames'' were blue and green. Flames should be orange, or at least white. Operating on the sound, electrical principle that if the bulb fits, the voltage must be right, I dropped white replacement bulbs in the plastic candles.
I never saw tiny white lights shine so brightly. It looked so realistic. The smoke curling from the candles improved the effect. Perfect!
“Do we have any hot dogs or marshmallows?'' I hollered to my wife.
"Unplug it! Unplug it!'' she shrieked.
When she cooled — the angel, I mean; my wife took longer — we outfitted our sunburned winged one with bulbs of the recommended voltage.
“How about,” my wife suggested, “you work on the rock candy and the kids and I will do the tree?”
“Really? Can I used the big knife this time?”
“Maybe you should take a nap. It would be nice to spend Christmas in the living room instead of the emergency room this year.”
Joy to the world and to the fishes in the deep, blue fish tank.
Burt is NOT an electrician at The Outlook. Write him at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.