Christmas mystery unveiled
For weeks leading up to Christmas, he worked behind closed doors. After the farmer had finished his day on the scaffold painting the house, he would retreat to his garage workbench to tend to my gift.
The late afternoons would be pierced with the table saw screaming and hammers pounding and, often, the farmer swearing. When the frustration got too much – or when he’d run out of supplies – his red pickup would rumble down the driveway and up the hill to the home improvement store.
It was a surprise. I was banned from the garage and scolded for asking. Mysterious boxes would arrive on the front porch; as the UPS truck rumbled away I’d gather the boxes, shake them a little, and move them to the back porch. The next day they would be gone, knitted into the bones of whatever it was he was conjuring out there.
Maybe Geppetto comes to mind, the kindly craftsman bent over the workbench, building something magical. The farmer wouldn’t be impressed by that comparison. He’s not old.
Things weren’t going well for a few days, an insight delivered in the form of a blue stream of curse words wafting out of the garage. But then he would walk through the kitchen door smiling, smelling of varnish and shaved wood.
This was to be the year of no Christmas presents. We have everything we need, we agreed, and since I’ve adopted a no-clutter rule for the household, it would be rebellious for him to build something.
But a handmade gift falls outside the borders of a no-gift mandate, doesn’t it?
Had I mentioned my desire for some household doodad – a request long since forgotten by me but not by him? Was this one of those gifts that men think their women need – in this case, say, the handmade equivalent of custom car floor mats?
One worries. I don’t care for grandfather clocks; we have too many chairs as it is, and although we can always fill up more bookshelves around here, where would we put them?
Christmas Eve came, warm and drizzly. He asked me to hold open the kitchen door for him. The farmer walked out of the garage holding an object taller than he is, and he’s six-six on a bad day. It was a long, apparently heavy wooden beam with arms sticking out all over.
As he poked the one end through the door, I stepped to the side and recognized my present.
A coat tree.
The farmer carried it to the front hallway and set it down. It is a gleaming, hand-hewn version of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree – a main trunk with a lot of small branches. The top and the branches are adorned with shiny wooden knobs – the contents of all those UPS boxes. The best part, though, is the base: a wide disk of poured concrete tinted a sage green.
“It will never fall over,” I said, staring up at it.
And that’s when I remembered. I’ve grumbled about our lack of closet space. We’ve had other coat trees, but they were spindly things that toppled under the weight of a few ski jackets.
But my gift? As I write this, its outstretched arms are holding no fewer than eight coats, a faux fur vest and a book bag. It’s a shame it’s so covered with stuff you can’t see it.
When the family comes for dinner on Sunday, I’ll take their coats and scarves and hang them on my new tree, like ornaments. My Christmas gift is majestic and strong. It’s just what we needed.
And I have the only one like it.
Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.