I told Tara I wouldn’t do it. Promised her I’d resist the urge to take down all the Christmas decorations today. Tuesday, the last of my long weekend, would be a chill day. I’d do a little reading. Watch a movie. Kick back with cats on my lap.
I had the best of intentions, guys. But sitting on my recliner this morning, sipping coffee, the Christmas tree was bugging me. It’s a beautiful tree, as far as fake ones go, but it’s also December 26. The house has been in a perpetual state of disorganization since right after the family reunion, when we decorated for Halloween. My recliner was in the middle of the living room so the tree could fit next to the window. Lamps were on the floor of the guest room. Empty stockings were strewn about the sofa. It was chaos.
“Would you mind if I took the tree down today?” I asked Tara as she was about to head out the door for work. She shot me a look that I wish I could say was surprise, but after 13 Christmases together, she knows me too well.
“You’re supposed to relax today and not do a damn thing,” she said.
“I won’t do a damn thing after I do that one thing,” I replied.
But, to quote ’80s new wave rock band The Fixx, one thing leads to another. With the tree down, I figured I might as well pack up the Christmas village and clear off the buffet, too. By then I was on a roll, so I just kept going. Hauled in a million plastic tubs from the garage and loaded them with ceramic Santas and reindeer, pine-scented candles and wooden nutcrackers, framed holiday prints and festive pillows, giant plastic ornaments I’d suspended from the ceiling, garland I’d wrapped around the banister, our Christmas Vacation moose mugs and shot glasses, the Santa and Christmas tree salt and pepper shakers, and the dozens of other knickknacks that fill our home for roughly 30 days of the year.
Good hell, we have a lot of shit.
Approximately 3.5 hours later, the deed was done. Order had been restored to MarTar Manor. To my credit, I drew the line at tackling the outdoor lights and decorations, though I did unplug everything.
Little victories.
The holiday weekend was pretty nice, even if the balmy 50+ degree weather felt more like March or April than December. Our lows were in the 40s, a dozen degrees warmer than our average highs, setting all kinds of records. I may have been dreaming of a White Christmas, but with rain falling, all Santa brought me was a wet Christmas.
Bah, humbug.
I took advantage of global warming by moving the giant pile of mulch and wood chips from the side of the house to the back of our property, one wheelbarrow-full at a time, a project that took 10 hours over the course of two days. I’d had the tree people dump the wood chips in the middle of the grass because maneuvering their heavy equipment to the back of the yard would have been a cumbersome task, but I knew it was a temporary solution. I attacked that pile with gusto and a shovel, making at least 200 trips across the yard. Seriously, that’s all I did Saturday and Sunday afternoon, and I was so sore once it was done I could barely move. See why my wife wanted me to take it easy today?!
My stubbornness will be the death of me.
Fortunately, I wrapped it all up just as the sun set on Christmas Eve. We drove around Fort Atkinson, sipping spiked cocoa while checking out the holiday lights around town – an annual tradition (though we skipped it in 2022 because it was 5º and the streets were ice-packed). What a difference a year makes, huh? It was so warm, we actually had the windows cracked open. We picked up Chinese food on the way home and watched the Broncos get their asses kicked by the lowly Pats.
Christmas day, Tara did a whole lot of cooking. We’d ordered a prime rib from a local butcher, and had homemade mac ‘n cheese, green beans, and Yorkshire pudding to go along with it. And to top it all off, cheesecake from a family recipe that’s been handed down through the generations, topped with a juneberry compote from our backyard harvest earlier this year.
It was an amazingly delicious meal. I kept offering to help in the kitchen, but Tara insisted on doing it all herself. I think she felt guilty after all my backbreaking manual labor the previous two days.
Hope your Christmas was every bit as merry as ours, and for my Canadian friends, hope your Boxing Day delivered a knockout punch.
Mark My Words 
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