Ah, love: what is it if not the unwilling capitulation to your significant other’s demands. With one tree looking like we called in a group of toddlers to put it together, I believed I had satisfied Hubby’s need for haphazard. I was wrong.
The tree I cut down with the patient aid of Father-in-Law was to be placed by our front door, for all to see. Being an outside sort of tree, it would bear lights rather than baubles. How can you go wrong with lights? I thought. How indeed.
Hubby had also purchased some big coloured lights last year to celebrate my being there over the holiday season. By the time I arrived, they’d been unplugged in favour of the snowblower, but I appreciated the sentiment. And so, this year, I believed we’d be awash with a colourful, twinkling glow over Christmas.
In hindsight, it might not have been wise to turn my back. My first clue that everything was about to go tits up was that he trotted by with two different strands of lights: one white, one coloured. Not to worry, I thought, we can intertwine them and have a row of one and then a row of the other.
Apparently not. As Hubby plonked lights on bits of branch, I assumed, optimistically, that he was planning to tidy them up later. He was not. We now have third of a tree in white and a third of a tree in colour and a third of a tree sadly bare and the whole shebang would still be propped against the apartment wall if Dad-in-Law had not insisted it be moved under the bower, where it could actually be seen.
Then he broke one of the stands for the big lights, so it’s hanging upside down over the walkway while its neighbours stand tall and, somewhere nearby, the most random tree in the area twinkles gleefully.