Chapter 17

The Tree Still Shines

This story is dedicated to all the people who've
Wondered at the beauty of a Christmas Tree,
Touched the handiwork of holiday art,
and to those many who have ever placed an ornament on
A loved one's tree.

And to Kevin, Chris & Dixie who slapped me upside
The head with this story.

Finally, this is also dedicated to the memory of

Sarah Lee Pilley and Dorothy Jeanes.

Something woke me from a sound sleep.

Stunned, I lay awake. Slowly coming to my senses, I tried to identify what disturbed the peace. Sprawled out in my parent's den on the recliner, I stared at the ceiling. Fighting the sensation, I argued with myself against the prompting. Ignore the temptation, I urged my conscience mind against the sub conscience leaning. I was still tired. After working most of the day, I wondered why I couldn't just remain in that chair.

Hadn't I done enough damn driving? Couldn't the wanderlust chill? Give me a rest, just this once?

Sleep, that’s what I needed. Sleep sweet stationary sleep. Closing my eyes, I tried to relax. But the stirring deep inside me would not quiet. Damn. Why couldn't I enjoy the peace? Why must I always be on the move? The answer remained elusive. I closed my eyes forcefully, but again the stirring was stronger. I couldn't shake the restlessness nor lose the energy burst. Acquiescing, eyes open, I once again stared at the darkened ceiling.

Was I going crazy?

Quitting the fight, I surrendered. I would go. Exhausted as I was, there seemed no end to my agitation. Hell, if things went south and exhaustion once again reclaimed her upper hand, I could nap in a rest area.

I knew that song too.

But sleeping in a rest area was also a last resort.

After 16 years of long hauling across every state in the lower 48, much of Canada and Alaska, I'd learned my limitations. I'd also found ways to push them aside. Bargaining with myself when sleep came knocking, nodding heads became a given, and the dance of oncoming headlights hypnotized, I had my bag of tricks to stay awake.

My preferred method, drinking cans of diet Pepsi until my bladder screamed, insured my eyeballs were afloat and every bump jarred a tenuous tank near the brink. Pushing endurance to its limits, the air brakes were barely set before I jumped out of the tractor cab and prayed there was an open urinal. This method of staying awake only resulted in one "accident" in 16 years. The pain, the dancing in the air-seat, and the game of refusing to stop for relief, all but guaranteed an alert blast of extra energy. Exhausted but rocking in the seat, there was no chance of falling asleep! A hundred miles or so further down the road, I’d finally give in and find sweet release. Someday my urologist would love me.

After the ballooning bladder method, plan two involved the sugar high method. Several bags of candy sours nicely garnished with some sort of chewy, chocolatey, caramel indulgence, chased down with a few more Diet Pepsis for good measure. This could keep eyelids from drooping. High as a kite, the blood sugar ride up was dizzying. The miles flew by until the crash. That point when the sugar in the blood stream produces a sensation similar to a major lottery winning. A moment that resembles a meth addict being introduced to the art of macramé.

Separating a natural high from an induced one, this dizzying euphoric, millionth of a second, is a high point/low point moment in time. Its an invisible mental place, marking where thoughts race blindly toward another fix or complete meltdown. Consumption of sugar high-producing foodstuffs has consequences, such as a delightful neurosis where one somehow knows the words to every Barry Manilow song on the oldies station, and "Mandy" actually seems like a classic masterpiece. Then the sugar high wears off, and even remembering one's name becomes a challenge.

Every high is destined to end. Fatigue rushes in, filling the void. A spent driver now has ten miles, tops, to find somewhere to park and let the high subside and sleep finally have its way. During those ten miles the Barry Manilow tunes drift rapidly downward, from the perky "Copacabana" to the mind numbing, "Two Ships that Pass in the Night."

Thinking about these options, I sat up in the recliner. I knew if I left Seattle now, the drive would have its price. A whole summer of sit-ups, crunches and push-ups ruined in one late night, chocolate road-tripped, sugar high.

Looking at my watch, I saw it was after 8 PM. Only a crazy man would leave now. I thought about the beckoning ranch nearly 400 miles away. And I thought about my parents’ den. "Stay here," the exhausted part of me begged. "Leave!" screamed the rest of me.

The restless ghosts won the battle.

Thirty minutes later I rolled my pickup onto I-90. Solitary in the night, my headlights lit like a beacon. The late fall evening rose dark and comforting around me. For a weekend, traffic was light and the brightness of Seattle quickly faded into the blackness of the Cascade Mountains. Red taillights glanced off of each other and the mile markers appeared and disappeared as mere commentary on the journey's progress. I traveled and felt the loneliness that only the hum of tires and the passing of big rigs can inspire. Country music played under the stars to accompany with complete harmony all that defines a truck driver's inability to sit still.

Again I felt the stirring deep inside and tried to ponder the origin of such promptings. My thoughts scattered and I couldn't figure out what riled me. A scattered collection of short images and muted voices, the visions in my mind could not be caught. "Stay still," I begged. "Let me ponder."

Fleeting and darting, the hesitancy of my restlessness seemed too elusive to pinpoint. I finally convinced myself to just enjoy the night and the movement of the road.

Issaquah, North Bend, and Snoqualmie Pass faded behind me. Cle Elum and Ellensburg soon followed. Traffic grew sparser and my thoughts grew louder. I traveled solo across twenty-mile straight stretches. My headlights, the growl of the pickup’s diesel engine and the silence of the stars were all I knew. I was home on the highway and any trace of exhaustion vanished as the clouds of the Cascade Range gave way to the full moon of a desert night. The northern lights danced and I settled in to the miles, making time to the beat of Jo Dee Messina fading in and out on a far off country western station.

The woman knew my story: Worked two jobs, moved a few times. She knew about being left behind. But according to her lyrics, being left behind did not equal being down and out. I accompanied her, and together we sang about not wanting a man to walk behind us or in front of us but beside us. I sang tenor, soprano, and bass all at once. Jo Dee sang like the angel she is. The songs seemed written for the road and the lyrics were those of weary travelers who wonder if God ever gets the blues.

Together Jo Dee and I made miles with my ever-present restlessness keeping time. The night spread out in the windless dark and the lights of a westbound big rig lit the coulees as a lone beacon. Even in the aloneness of my motion, I felt the company of strangers and I saw the handiwork of God in the desolation of the night.

Truck drivers are a strange lot. We know the pain of forced layovers, the desire to keep moving. I'd left Seattle under that spell. Yet I knew others on that night were also restless. Laid over, stuck, and looking for new territory to survey.

Before I’d left my parents’ house I called my friend J.D. who'd been temporarily waylaid in an accident with his beloved Peterbilt. I could hear the restlessness in his voice.

J.D. didn't know how to sit still. Being away from his purple Peterbilt was nothing short of hell on the man. To compound matters, while he waited for the truck to be repaired another driver he knew rolled into town and the two of them set about to tearing up the city's taverns.

Over the cell phone I could hear the wild party sounds of whatever tavern they'd drug themselves into. I recognized drunken hooting and hollering. J.D. put me on the line with Collin, who confessed immediately that he didn't feel so well and that he'd already drunk too much. And it wasn't even eight o'clock yet! "Put J.D. back on the phone," I told Collin after we made our "how-do's."

"What are you doing, J.D.? That boy sounds trashed and it isn't near last call!"

"Tim, he told me he wasn't a drinker but I had no idea. Collin really isin’t a drinker. I. I…uh oh Tim. Collin isn't looking very good." Unfortunately I didn't believe J.D. He didn't do innocent very well and I was sure that he knew exactly what he was doing. Getting Collin drunk was no accident.

"J.D., you aren't driving Collin's Peterbilt around town are you? J.D.?" There was a long pause as the phone was muffled and I could hear more yelling and laughing in the background. Part of me didn't want to know what was happening and I could only imagine which Spokane dive they'd found to hole up in. I just prayed they weren't planning to finish the evening off out at State Line.

"What were you saying Tim?" J.D. yelled into the phone.

I gave up on rational conversation. "Look J.D. I am leaving in a few minutes. I’ll be in Spokane in four hours to pick you boys up and we'll head up to the ranch. Don't get arrested or a DUI. Do you hear me? And tell me you aren't bobtailing Collin's Peterbilt around town. You aren't, right?"

J.D. sighed loudly. "No Tim, we wouldn't do that. We got a cab. Make sure you call when you get in to Spokane. OK?"

I hung up the phone and wondered what I was getting myself into.

J.D. is one of those guys who, no matter how old he gets, just keeps getting better looking. The man has a corny line for everything, but no matter how awful it is, it’s impossible to hate him because he is very good at being, well, very good. His brown highway-squinted eyes and a salt and pepper goatee mask a wannabe troublemaker. Never letting you in on the secret that you've been had until he's ready to, I've seen more than a few embarrassed men and women turn crimson under his spell. I'd also been the victim of his teasing a few times but it was all in good fun. I don't believe J.D.'s has a mean bone in his body. As long as I have known him, folks on both sides of the gender divide are mesmerized when he enters the room.

Defying labels and the traditional roles of sexuality, he charms everyone equally. His sons adore him. Ladies across the west swear by him. Lonely western men chase the horizon, hoping to hear his horn. Accepting long ago that he equally frustrated and charmed those who rode shotgun with him, I eventually came to the conclusion that to know J.D. is to define "don't fence me in." I quit fighting a notion that he needed settling down. Once I found that serenity, the rest came naturally. I suppose there isn’t much he can throw at me that would upset me now. I’ve accepted that he’s crazy and it's never gotten in the middle of our friendship. Other drivers refer to him as dingo, giving credit to his universal status as one wild dog.

J.D. understands the world, but everything about the world confuses him. In fact, in one of his rare serious moments he confessed that in spite of his wild ways, he finds the world a bit off kilter. As much as he seeks to roam, he spends much of his time lonely and reckoning. As many times as he’s broken innocent hearts, his has been shattered as well. It’s a never-ending dance and it's all about keeping time to a different drummer. Leading a never-ending life of road weary pondering, his answers come few and far between. Often he calls me bewildered. Questioning man's treatment of a fellow man, he wonders at our faithlessness. His questions ring true, and those queries are impossible to answer. Some questions weren't meant to be asked, some answers aren’t meant to be understood. And some things are meant only to be taken at face value. J.D. refuses to accept this. He needs to know why.

But as logical as he tries to make the world, J.D. also believes in magic. And magic is what binds us. We share a secret and it's one that most would question. Yet his beliefs reassure my faith and I realize that I am not alone. I agree with J.D. when he states without doubt that a big truck can have a soul.

And on the right moonlit night, the soul of that rig is the purest thing a man can know.

Sarah Lee Pilley sat in my grandparents’ dining room, tentatively smiling at me. She was a soft-faced woman with warm, flushed cheeks and teased dark gray hair. Nervously I smiled back. Dreams were on the line here as we waited for someone to come and buy my grandparents’ home of nearly 40 years. We eyed each other in the way that strangers must when money or trust is on the line. Referred to us by another real estate agent, Sarah Lee had extensive knowledge of the local area.

My grandmother had sent Dallas and me out to try to find someone to sell their home. Someone who wouldn’t rip them off. Someone who would learn all about World War II in triplicate via my grandfather. Someone who understood how hard uprooting was on folks that had lived nearly 40 years in the same house. We were in the process of looking for our own place, so we asked the real estate agent we found at the mall if she knew anyone who specialized in relocating older folks.

She did, and she smiled this sweet smile as she dug around for her colleague’s business card. “That is so nice of you to take care of your grandparents like this”, her eyes glistened. “do you have any idea of what their place is worth?” the agent asked.

“Somewhere around 100K”, I responded, adding “it’s a unique property. A small house, just one bath but a huge shop and nearly an acre of landscaped yard. Its just off the Centenial trail and you can nearly see to the river.”

“Is it riverfront?” she asked excitedly?

“No, I said you can almost see the river.”

“I see.” She wasn’t nearly as enthused and handed the business card of another woman to me. "She's a Christian woman with family values," the referring agent told me over her desk, not realizing that Dallas and I were partners.

Thus Sara Lee came into our lives.

We were at a time where the winds of change blew wild and my grandparents had come to realize that their place was getting to be too much for them. Through a long chain of events, the business card referral became flesh, and lo and behold, God brought forth a realtor named Sarah Lee. A soft spoken Republican and a Christian woman, she lived fine values. Hopefully, she’d sell the house before sundown.

But not until we had an open house.

Real estate open houses are a first cousin to exorcisms and seances. The pain and agony of getting a home ready to show involves psychology, superstition and faith. Signs are driven into perfectly good landscaping, strangers amble through, fingering, touching, and worst of all, judging everything.

In my grandparents’ case there was a lot to judge. Harvest gold appliances. Nearly an acre of lawn. A home-built shop. Only one bathroom, and it was so small that if the occupant sneezed he’d find himself either in the yard or plugging up the toilet. Sarah Lee described it as "adorable." Realtors can do that. They live and die by the adjective. "Homey." "One of a kind." "Timeless." Read: You are going to spend the rest of your life cursing the day you entered this structure where nothing is square, the electrical was born before time and it is impossible to resell without a major remodel.

Sarah Lee and I sat across from each other. I looked at her and she smiled again at me. Somebody needed to say something. Anything. She broke the ice. "Your grandparents are lucky to have such a devoted grandson." She hesitated, judging my response, before continuing. "I understand that you are pretty important to them."

I nodded. She was making points. No realtor was going to come in and mess with my grandparents. Although she was a "Christian woman with family values" I wasn't taking anything for granted.

"You're from the south," I said matter-of-factly. Her voice was sweet and soft like the rain after a humid, southern thunderstorm. Sarah Lee's drawl had a certain way of setting everyone at ease and her laugh came freely. As she nodded, acknowledging the obvious, I continued. "I guess mid-south…northern Tennessee, or maybe southern Missoura." I threw the pronunciation her way, which she acknowledged with a nod.

"Tennessee" she affirmed softly, watching me. The silence returned for another awkward moment as we thought about all of this new information. I figured she saw me as the middleman who would prevent her from low-balling my beloved grandparents. And that I saw her as the southern belle who would try to sweet-talk me into accepting the first pathetic offer that came along.

I didn't like my cynical outlook, but it was that kind of day. Expectations, cautions, and concerns were all wrapped up in the abilities of a realtor from the mid-south. So far no one had shown up for this grand hooplah, hoorah of an open house. While I continued watching the woman, she continued nervously smiling and adjusting her skirt. I was intrigued. From my perspective she looked too nice to be successful. She drove a sub compact car. She seemed vulnerable. I wanted to trust her. I found myself pacing around the kitchen.

"Tim, why don't you tell me about your grandparents?" She motioned to the chair next to her and I sat down staring at the blinding gold vinyl on my grandmother's kitchen floor. "Your Grandfather's quite a character. I haven't met anyone like him in a long time." Sarah Lee seemed less and less like a saleslady and more and more like a very nice lady.

"Yes he is. Did you like the 30 minute demonstration tour of where the cesspool is? Or rather was?" I asked grinning wickedly.

Sarah Lee threw her head back, laughing. We hadn't been able to get him to shut up about the beloved cesspool, even though it was replaced years ago. "Tim, I hope you won't be offended by this and your grandfather is a delightful man… but, well let’s just say some of his honesty may not be conducive to a quick sale."

I nodded. I knew just what she meant. My grandfather would point out every little side note about the house in which he had so much pride. He'd built the cabinets. He'd built his shop. He'd done the landscaping. His mark was everywhere. Unfortunately in sales, too much information can be, well, too much information.

From that moment on Sarah Lee and I began the tentative steps that take a business relationship toward a personal one. We talked about my grandmother and her courage as she’d struggled through two failed marriages to raise my mother. We talked about my grandfather, her third husband, and his boisterous spirit and never ending opinions. When my grandparents met it would be the third go round of matrimony for both of them. Their union lasted nearly 40 years.

Sarah Lee told me about her husband John. About how they couldn't have children so they'd adopted two boys. She shared stories of growing up in the south, and running a popular Colville, Washington restaurant called The Roadhouse. The restaurant was located not far from where my father grew up. Her business failed after many seasons of hard work. Years later, she still struggled to repay those obligations. Real estate and relationships with customers kept her afloat and as she smiled, I didn't think she was shining me. I'd only known the woman for a few hours but she seemed more genuine than anyone that I'd met in a long time.

"OK. Now what about you?" Sarah Lee asked.

What about me? I'd already told her much about my relationship with my grandparents including their history. And I'd thrown in several references to Dallas and his involvement in our lives. It was an awkward moment and Sarah Lee read it word for word. She became nervous. Then she looked me dead in the eye and asked.

"Tim, are you a homosexual? Is Dallas your…." She struggled for words and I finished the sentence for her.

"Yes, I'm gay and Dallas is my partner." I stared at the table and thought about these exchanges of information, and how awkward the whole endless coming out process is. It shouldn't be a big deal, but it is. The steps you take to disclose or distract. Who do you tell? When is it appropriate? And when do you keep your mouth shut? I shouldn't care so much about what people think, but I do. Now my grandparents’ real estate agent was in on the whole story. Would this news affect her ability to sell the house?

For a moment Sarah looked out the big picture window and into the back yard. We watched the winter light catch the fresh glistening snow. Overhead the sky was deep blue and the trees on the hills behind us remained blanketed with several inches of white powder. Sarah Lee remained silent and composed. Finally she turned to me and I noticed no change in her expression.

"Well Tim, you are such a nice man. It’s such a shame." She paused and then seemed to realize what she'd said. "I don't think, well uh, actually…" Another minute passed while she reconsidered everything and then looking at me she blushed. "Tim, I have to say I am surprised. And your grandparents, they…?" she asked. "I mean your grandfather especially with his military background?"

I nodded. Trying to explain the complicated dynamics of my family and the way the issue seemed to be such a dividing line, I outlined the various reactions the sexual orientation issue inspired. At that point in my life, I had little contact with my parents, a fact that troubled Sarah Lee.

"But Tim, they are your parents. They must love you very much. They brought you into this world. I can't imagine. I have two sons. I can't tell you what those boys have meant to me."

"Sarah Lee, I love my parents very much. But, I can't be around them if they won't acknowledge things as they are, rather than as they want them to be. They want me to change and keep sending me these brochures. I’ve tried all that. Said the prayers, went to the counseling, Homosexuals Anonymous, exorcisms, you name it. For nearly four years of my life I tried to be what they wanted me to be. Maybe going straight might work every once in a while for some people. But it didn't work for me. I got to the point where I realized I couldn't spend the rest of my life in neutral and I finally concluded that for reasons that I don't understand, this is how it is. God has understanding of this that I don't. I have peace about it. I know that God still loves me regardless. And as for the answers, I suppose they will come. But probably not this side of heaven."

I felt tense inside. I'd never planned to get into this discussion and I know Sarah Lee didn't expect it. I wondered how many gay people Sarah Lee knew. I wondered what she was thinking and I hoped that I hadn't offended her. I wondered why I couldn't just shut up. Coming out is so tiring. At times, I just wanted to exist and not have people question who or why I was.

Our banker knew. Our landlord knew. The people at the auto dealership knew. The lady at the western store knew. All the other drivers at work knew. Did it really matter that everyone knew? If people asked the question, they should be brave enough to hear the answer. But the effort to explain who you are, why you are, and why it's not something that anyone but you has the insight to understand is exhausting.

After another quiet moment, she turned toward me and in that southern voice she almost whispered. "I have never considered this before. I never really had to. You have a wonderful mind Tim. I can tell from our conversation that you are deeply thoughtful and you are fascinating to speak with. Your grandparents are so adorable and they are lucky to have you as a grandson. And you are lucky to have them."

I don't think it was an accident that not a single person came to view the home that day. I have to wonder if God didn't just arrange a sit down for us to lay the groundwork for what was to become a good friendship. Sarah Lee and I spent nearly four hours talking about our lives, coincidences, and existentialism. I told her stories about the antics of my grandfather and the determination of my grandmother. She shared with me about hard love and the way it can rip a parent to shreds. She told me about her decision to adopt and the way that her politics followed her inability to have children. We listened to each other as she spoke about being pro-life, and I countered with my arguments for choice. I was a liberal. She was conservative. But more important than anything, our political persuasions did not keep us from hearing each other. When she left at the end of the day, we were off to more than a business relationship. We were friends.

As she gave me a hug before turning to face the beautiful pink sunset reflected in the snow, she stopped. "Oh Tim, isn't this just the most marvelous day!"

I looked toward the setting sun and the way the snow sparkled in that last rose light. I had to agree. It was marvelous. But what I could not know, what neither of us could know at that moment, was how marvelous the world would become for me as a result of meeting Sarah Lee. Nor did I know at that moment the painful steps that would lie ahead.

J.D.'s phone rang repeatedly but no one answered. I tried Collin's cell phone but received no response. I paged J.D. Nothing. Looking at my watch, I gave them fifteen minutes. It was nearly 2 AM and I'd wasted an hour trying to track them down. My restlessness remained unsatiated by the drive from Seattle and while I've always hated driving through the midnight to dawn hours, tonight I could have made Missoula or farther if I'd tried. But what I wanted more than anything else was to get home.

Imagining J.D. and Collin three sheets to the wind, I visualized their sweet polluted selves having one final round before last call. I prayed that wherever they were, they weren't driving to their final destination. I also hoped that sooner rather than later I would hear from them. Getting back in the pickup, I pointed north and rolled another hour and a half toward home.

J.D. called at 4:30 AM.

Sitting upright in my bed, I found the phone but not before knocking it on the floor. Listening to the voice on the other end of the line, I sleepily watched as the moon illuminated the fog beginning to form on the river down below. J.D. was still full of libations and as the details emerged of their night of debauchery, he informed me that out of necessity Collin lay sleeping next to the toilet.

I silently thanked the Lord that I wasn't still in Spokane participating in their recovery. After apologizing for my failure to track them down and our missed connection in Spokane, J.D. assured me he'd find a ride up to the ranch. Visions of a vehicle pulled over on the side of the road with a man bent over a guardrail launching his cookies filled my mind. "Serves them both right," I thought.

Once I hung up the phone, I lay in bed unable to sleep. I knew the restlessness tugging at me wasn't my typical variety. This restlessness had more to do with facing the past. It had a lot to do with saying goodbye. The stirring wasn't really caused by a need to roam. I'd already driven 700 miles that day. Groaning, I begged my mind to give it a rest. Of course neither the conscience nor the sub conscience mind would, could, or did.

Instead, the uneasiness fed my tossing and turning. Refusing to stand still and face the reality that another year had passed, I tried to think pleasant thoughts. But my mind kept returning to what troubled me: Another year and more holidays drifting silently by, without me taking stock. In a few weeks it would be Christmas and the restlessness told me to get my ass in gear, brush myself off and just deal with things.

"Go away!" I thought while rolling over in bed.

I tried counting Peterbilts but that didn't work. Facing the naked truth that sleep was hopeless, I gave in to the prompting. Rising, I pulled on my Carhartts and said a few choice words while I stumbled toward the door. This was it. The first step toward the next step. It was 5 AM. All throughout the world people were going about their lives and facing their demons. I could do it too.

Unable to procrastinate another second, I tackled the mixture of dread and avoidance. Staring the devil dead in the eye, I cussed at myself in the mirror. Then grabbing a flashlight, I was outside in the late autumn cold. I made my way through the freezing darkness toward the shed where I knew all those damn boxes lay. I knew I could manage this. I knew that I didn't need anyone to hold my hand. I was 35 years old and there was no way that this was going to get me bogged down. I simply could not let another year pass. Cowboy up. Rider up. Giddy up.

Oh just shut up!

I opened the shed. The flashlight glimmered in the darkness. Then it went dead. Pounding the damn thing against the wall until the light returned, I found what I was looking for. It was a huge box. Surrounded by other boxes. Piles upon piles of boxes with happy little labels everywhere. I grabbed one box and then another. Carting them off toward the covered porch I stacked them neatly. Another trip. Then another. Soon there were boxes covering most of the porch. But, the biggest box of all remained in the shed. I trembled as I pulled it down from the rafters and struggled to balance it. The writing on the side of the box said it all. Horrifying words to anyone who has ever been with me during this time of year. Words spelled out in friendly green letters.

Words that simply said, "Christmas Tree - Made in China - 7 ½ Foot Tall Artificial Oregon Spruce."Complete with base, easy instructions and a 2-year limited warranty.

In many homes throughout America, the spirit of Christmas is often lost in the spirit of consumerism. During the years that Dallas and I had spent together, we tried to focus on traditions, often incorporating memories that we both held dear. Dallas took great joy in simple heirloom ornaments that were passed down for generations. I found the idea of the Christmas tree itself to be a wonderful obsession.

For both of us, during the holidays more than any other time of year, we tried very hard to gain the acceptance of others in our lives, especially family members, whom we loved. Christmas seemed to offer a magical bridge between the two worlds. Sometimes we overcame our differences. Other years it seemed like we hit a patch of black ice halfway across the season and everyone went flying, got muddy, and we all had to start the journey over.

For many gay men and women, the issue of family is a bittersweet experience of one step forward and two steps back. The high points are glorious. The low points are so excruciating that it's best to forget them altogether.

While my parents had great difficulty accepting that I was gay, my extended family in Spokane did not. When Dallas and I settled in Spokane, my great Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Tommy performed at our first Christmas tree decorating party. Blessed with lungs of steel and a voice that was known throughout the west, Dorothy Jeanes sang with clarity that remains to this day difficult to describe. Similar to Patsy Cline, her voice echoed in nightclubs throughout northern Idaho, eastern Washington, and casinos in northern Nevada. Backed by my Uncle Tommy on bass guitar, their performances, complete with dazzling costumes and gowns, brought light to any stage. Tommy and Dorothy's presence was the first hint of unconditional acceptance that our relationship had known outside of my grandparents.

At the time, I could not fully appreciate their generosity of spirit. Still the message my aunt and uncle sent to the rest of the family by simply being there, singing, and playing for all they were worth, gave Dallas and I one of the best Christmas gifts we would ever have. Their love and joy was a priceless gift. No department store box, wrapped up in a bow and containing some charged item at 30% off could compare with the selflessness of their action. I doubt they knew it at the time, but they lit the way for the rest of the extended family to follow.

Once Tommy and Dorothy RSVP'd, uncles and aunts I'd not seen in years followed suit. At first, the night seemed a bit on the ho hum side. Earlier in the day the tree had fallen over and Dallas and I had barely found a way to stabilize it prior to the guests’ arrival. We were still frustrated from fighting the tree all afternoon. Our mixed crowd of gay and straight guests were equally and clearly uptight. To say everyone needed a stiff drink was an understatement. It was a silent night. A very silent night!

Until Dorothy began to sing.

Somehow naturally working her magic among the estranged audience, Dorothy warmed grinches and fairies alike. The night began with the gay folks on one side of the room and my genetic links on the other side. Separated by an invisible no man's land, none among them could resist Dorothy’s smile and her vocal interpretations of the old standards. Soon the divisions disappeared.

Under Tommy's subtle direction, chaos reigned as Dorothy sang. Soon she began gingerly placing the ornaments from the tree in her gray beehive hair. Before long, brightly colored ornaments also dangled from the neckline of her outfit. While she covered Patsy Cline's "Crazy," large orbs appeared hanging from her ears. Bows and birds mingled in a teased gray coiffure. The assembled partygoers took her cue. Eventually, guests wore more ornaments than remained on the tree. As the ornaments exited stage right the tree became increasingly unbalanced. The night descended into hilarious confusion and the tree threatened to crash to the floor.

Party hosts often give great concern to whether everyone will mingle. These concerns were not unknown to Dallas and me. We'd never tried to host a party mixing our gay and straight friends and my family before. We had no idea what to expect. Yet, as Dorothy belted out "Jingle Bells" and Tommy rocked, not only were those in attendance mixing it up, but to our surprise a collection of smiling faces was detected. On the sidelines my grandfather giggled and my grandmother marveled at the antics of her sister. Laughter flowed.

It was such a success that the Annual Christmas Tree Desecration became a sacred tradition. On the day after Thanksgiving we'd drive all over Spokane to find a beautiful noble fir. After hours of holding up tree after tree, one would finally scream "choose me". Not because it was any better than the other trees, but because hypothermia was setting in. Somehow we always found a tree that in the right light resembled exactly what we were looking for: A tree that was a dead ringer for an eighty year old Cher.

Most years we pre-decorated the tree prior to the party. Our most loyal friends arrived hours and sometimes days beforehand. Knowing full well what they were getting themselves into, they were patient souls. Enduring endless varieties of ornaments, garlands and wreaths, untangling lights, putting hooks in ornaments, they embarking on painstaking engineering studies to prevent the annual Tree Crash.

These were very serious moments in the yearly calendar. The highlight always came at that point where the lights were untangled, laid upon the tree and the tree began to take on the spirit of magic. And the unsettling appearance of a really bad drag queen.

As part of our tradition, each guest was expected to bring an ornament to place on the tree. Ideally the ornament represented something about them. It could revolve around career, hobby, or personality. The decoration could be store-bought or handmade. Some guests, without prompting, used this as an opportunity to tastefully publicize sexual interests as well. Unfortunately a spouse wasn't always informed beforehand of this intent. Public disclosure made these compelling interests even more, well, compelling. The ensuing drama, threats, and gasps often made the night. Thankfully, the year my parents attended, all of the ornaments were rated G.

Many of our guests would arrive with two ornaments; a mock addition and a serious one. Placed side by side on the same branch, their offerings might be considered the Ying and Yang of Christmas. After several years, our Christmas tree became a living testament to the wonderful people in our lives. Year after year, thoughtful symbols remained long after the entertainment of the party concluded. Serving as ongoing reminder of those whom we loved, decorations caught the light, twirled on hooks and glittered under the tinsel. A simple ornament became the route to remembering these souls and the ways that they made our lives better. Somehow our tradition caught on even amongst my family. Returning to their homes, they held similar events.

Believing it is far better to give than to receive, we also gave those attending our festivities a questionable handmade ornament. During our cross-country travels throughout the year we collected tree shaped car air fresheners. Since they'd journeyed over the same highways we'd traveled, we figured they represented us perfectly.

When spray painted white and covered with purple and blue sequins and way too much glitter, they looked horrendous in a distinguished sort of way. Such handmade atrocities might make Martha Stewart cringe, but we were merely truckers and so our guests accepted these frighteningly hideous things with a graciousness that only friends can muster. Later we’d find them "accidentally" left in the bathroom, overlooked on the balcony, or mistakenly run over by well placed steer tires. I accepted the whole "Oops, I must have dropped it" defense with humble understanding.

I am not sure how a simple tree could become so powerful, but that first Christmas in Spokane proved to be a lesson in unexpected blessings. As Tommy and Dorothy began singing softer Christmas carols, the mood in our apartment changed. As the guests became more serious, ornaments left their temporary perches in hairdos, jewelry, and apparel, and returned to the tree. Small bundles were simultaneously retrieved from purses and jacket pockets. Although many of our assembled guests began the evening as strangers, by the time it was over, everyone shared something special. Connections formed and as the lights dimmed, people came forward and held up their personal ornaments for everyone to see. Gently placing their stories on our tree, friend after friend after family member shared their Christmas memories.

After singing "I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas," Tommy and Dorothy took their turn at the tree. She hung a beautiful glass ornament from a branch, then spoke quietly about the ornaments she remembered from her family’s Christmases on their simple Montana homestead. Knowing how poor her family was in those days, I couldn’t imagine that Dorothy’s childhood ornaments were anywhere near as beautiful as the one she now hung on my tree. Red, white and blue, it was perfectly symmetrical. Hand-brushed snowflakes danced on the winter hues of the oversized ornament, catching the light and reflecting it across the room like a mirror ball.

Looking back, I don't think anyone really wanted that night to end. Our friends commented on the wacky wonderfulness of my relatives. Afterwards as we cleaned up the remains of the party, I felt content. Maybe peace could reign on earth and goodwill actually does sometimes fall among mankind when you least expect it. For us that was the sum total of our Christmas. After most of our company left, the friends remaining with us sat by the dying fire. Although our night had been far from silent, the words to the song seemed perfect as outside the snow fell and inside the fire warmed. The glow from that night, the party with Dorothy and Tommy, lingered long after the last guest left.

What I had no way of knowing then was that nearly a decade later the memories from that night would someday be my own bridge back to the spirit of the holidays.

Shortly after that party, Dorothy was diagnosed with a thief-like illness. And like a thief, it came without warning. Dorothy sat in her doctor's office on one ordinary day unaware that that his news would forever change her life. Although we did not realize it at the time, that first Spokane Christmas party was the only party that she would ever attend with us. Fighting her illness for several years while keeping up the faith, she endured a regimen of treatments while the family looked on, helplessly wishing we could join her fight against the disease.

When we first heard the news, "Cancer," we silently wondered what this meant. Soon words like radiation and chemotherapy fell into our vocabulary. Yet Dorothy remained the same delightful spirit and many times it seemed like it was happening to someone else. I can't imagine what the word "cancer" must have felt like when she first heard it. Maybe everything became surreal. Maybe her life turned upside down as she sat in that doctor's office. Or maybe she refused to hear the words and kept thinking ahead toward the future. I suppose it was a combination of all of those thoughts that kept her faith strong. As word spread throughout my family, shock and concern replaced complacency. We'd never seen cancer strike a family member before. We had no idea what we had in store for us.

The big box was almost impossible to get into the house. Sliding on the frost covering the deck, I lost my footing and did a nice belly flop down the porch stairs. Getting up, I looked toward my neighbor's place, hoping they didn't witness the spectacle. Righting the box, I balanced it on my shoulders and gingerly placed one foot in front of the other. Christmas tree first, I navigated my way into the house. The box tumbled into the middle of the living room with a thud.

The words "Instructions Included" hinted that joyous times were just around the corner. I'd never constructed an artificial tree before. At least not a "Christmas Tree - Made in China - 7 ½ Foot Tall Artificial Oregon Spruce."Upon opening the box, I frowned. The "complete instructions" amounted to a small diagram on a lone piece of paper. A diagram that obviously wouldn't be understood by anyone who wasn't a born genius, psychic, or skilled in the interpretation of ancient Chinese symbols. Positive that the manufacturer contracted the instruction sheet art out to an advanced Kindergarten class somewhere in Asia, I turned the sheet around and around.

The one universal rule pertaining to all instruction manuals states that one must completely read through all of the instructions before initiating the actual construction phase of any given project. If there is a corollary to this universal rule, it involves understanding that real men will always begin the assembly process before even glancing at the instructions.

I stand before you today humbly confessing that I am a proud member of the latter tribe. If I had only read to the bottom of the initial instruction page, I would have discovered that the English instructions were noted elsewhere. Specifically, they were clearly written on the inside of the box. The very same box that was at that very moment burning in the fireplace.

Cardboard, once ignited, is very difficult to extinguish. Especially inside an occupied dwelling with a working smoke alarm.

From what I was able to salvage of the box, which basically included the words "Before you begin…," I discovered a fairly steep learning curve lay ahead of me. All those little branches sprawled throughout two rooms actually had some sort of order connected to them. After painful deductions, logic surmised that the tags on the assorted branches meant something. Yet despite the fact that the tags bore these little indiscernible letters and numbers, their value escaped me. Upon closer examination, I noticed that each tag also had different colors. Confronting me, spread across the living room, was the advanced version of paint by numbers.

But different. Way different.

Each colored tag corresponded with a similar color on the fake trunk. Lining up the branch with the appropriate hole was not supposed to be brain surgery. "Anyone can do this," I told myself as my hands shook and the branches wavered in the pre-dawn light.

Finishing sometime later, I double-checked to make sure that I'd marked all the holes, filled all the slots, and fluffed every branch. Standing back to survey my creation, I was troubled. Any resemblance to a Christmas tree was completely absent. My beautiful "Christmas Tree - Made in China - 7 ½ Foot Tall Artificial Oregon Spruce" resembled the world's largest toilet scrubbing brush. One that was in need of a good pruning.

Frantically I pulled the branches out of the stalk, determined to get it right. Returning to the fireplace I prayed for guidance. I did not want an artificial, Charlie Brown Christmas tree. I wanted an almost Oregon Spruce.

Looking at the mass of separated parts, branches, allen wrench attachments, and other unidentified thingies, I began to panic. Absolutely nothing made any sense. From all this chaos was to emerge a "Christmas Tree - Made in China - 7 ½ Foot Tall Artificial Oregon Spruce," flame retardant with 9,000 tips? I don't think so.

Eventually a certain order calmed my nerves. Willing the Spirit of Christmas to exorcise my inner Scrooge, I begged the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future to pay me a visit.

Which, of course, they did.

The Ghost of Christmas Past noted that from his perspective it was obvious I'd tried to put together a tree without reading the directions first.

Like, duh.

The Ghost of Christmas Present agreed, noting that from the looks of things, my current holiday outlook looked messy.

OK, so tell me something I don't know.

The Ghost of Christmas Future presented me with a horrifying vision. A vision of what my living room would look like if I didn't get a Christmas Care Customer Service Consultant from the "Christmas Tree - Made in China - 7 ½ Foot Tall Artificial Oregon Spruce" company on the phone soon.

"That’s it!" I screamed. "Out! All three of you OUT of my living room. GO! You are not helping me. Now!"

Naturally they wouldn't leave.

Sitting on the floor I looked at the mess. Closing my eyes, I visualized a beautiful Christmas tree. A symbol of the holidays, glowing with brightly colored lights. One that held garlands, ornaments, and other treasures cradled in breathtaking, realistically-formed branches. A tasteful monument standing in honor of the reason behind the season. I dreamed of a tree that wouldn't think of crashing. I counted to ten and opened my eyes.

CUT!

If you are expecting something magical to happen next, well this is not your going to be your holiday tale. Got it? Are we on the same page here? Good.

The living room remained littered with tree stuff. No angels from on high had come and assembled, decorated, and lit the tree. Everything was just as it was before I took my mental vacation. Pathetic.

The ghosts were still there too. Mocking me. Complete with hushed, hardly reverent references to Tiny Tim and endless admonitions to change my Christmas ways and all that other stuff.

Getting up from the floor, I began the painstaking process of putting everything together again. Slowly and tediously I found all the green tagged branches. Placing them in the green holes, next red went into red, and purple went into purple and so on. This time letters corresponded with letters. Numbers fell into the appropriate numbered slots. An hour later, a naked tree rose from the chaos. Stepping back, I marveled at my handiwork. If the right amount of creative visualization was channeled in just the right direction, my tree no longer resembled a giant toilet brush.

Sitting back down on the floor, I let my eyes revel in the beautiful artificial image of it all. Contented, I leaned against the wall. I felt emancipated. I laughed. I sighed. I loved my tree.

That is until I saw "it."

That one little thing that always reaches out and pinches all perfectionists.

The flaw.

The little discrepancy jumping out from nowhere that will keep us neurotic types from ever sleeping again. Until the imperfection is addressed.

The top of my tree was crooked. Leaning to the left, the odd angle was barely noticeable. But I could see it.

I am 5'8." 5'9," tops, with cowboy boots.

Standing up, I looked at the tree from different angles. I tried convincing myself that no one would catch the lack of symmetry.

But I knew it was there. I would always know it was there.

We all know where this is going. Reading any further is almost pointless because everyone knows someone just like me. Someone who drives everyone crazy with their little busybodyness. That odd compulsive trait, that with or without cowboy boots, just can't leave well enough alone. They can't listen to reason, angels or even God unless whatever the problem is, has been fixed. So skip this next part if reading further seems redundant.

BEGIN SKIP

Of course most of you won't. You don’t want to miss the gore.

I found a chair. Dragging it over to the tree, I climbed up on the seat and reached out into space. I still wasn't tall enough, nor were my arms long enough to do this gracefully. Extended on tiptoes, my cowboy boots gave me very little extra leverage. Leaning forward I could almost touch the tip. Juuuuusssssttttt aaaaa liiiittttlllleeee fartttthhhher….therrrrreeeee. Allllllllmmmoosssstttt goooottt iiiitttttttt.

I had it. I had the tip in my….

The chair rocked forward and I lost my balance. Down went the chair and I found myself embracing the tree, three feet off the ground. Now firmly holding onto the tree, I felt a trembling sensation as the "Christmas Tree - Made in China - 7 ½ Foot Tall Artificial Oregon Spruce" staggered under my weight. Suddenly sympathetic with the plight of squirrels all over the world facing off against wind rocked trees, I thought about the itsy bitsy little stand that now carried all the weight of myself and the tree.

In retrospect, I now believe the stand failed immediately. It just seemed to take forever. Remember, in near death experiences each survivor tells of seeing their whole life pass before their very eyes. In slow motion even? After calculating the weight load, this seemed to activate the universal ‘start’ button for near death experience version 6.1. Thereby confirming my doom.

Hugging the tree, I went down with my ship. The ride took forever. First we wobbled. Then we began to weave. Each motion lasted a really long time, followed by a pause when it appeared the tree would recover, and that this was just a false alarm. During this time, I did revisit most of my life and I had the distinct impression that I could have done better.

Unfortunately the motion of tree bending metal, and metal bending plastic was irreversible. I finally shattered the early morning stillness. A crash resembling a sonic boom echoed in the house. The loud whump as we reestablished contact with mother earth floor remains etched in my mental homeowners policy.

Exhausted from the previous night's drive and the tree ordeal, I lay gently cradled, well OK, trapped on the floor. Wondering at the stupidity of the holidays, I thought, "Tim, why are you doing this to yourself? Every year you think that maybe this year it will be different. That maybe this year it will be better. But every year you find yourself bonding with the floor and some real or fake, attempt at a Christmas tree. Get a clue."

But I also knew that I was not alone. All over the world, others just like me probably lay prone under their trees. Wondering, as they lay buried under branches, real and fake, if their chiropractors would understand how their vertebrae changed places with their prostate. All done while simply trying to put up a Christmas tree.

Considering all the hurt people like me have come to, I felt the reassurance of the Universal Brotherhood of Holiday Fools. While artificial branches caressed my face, I marveled at the great pains those with the Christmas Spirit endure and the way we mar our bodies for life as we pursue our affliction. I smiled wistfully while contemplating the joy we provide our neighbors as we electrocute ourselves trying to put up lights. I saw popping fuses and men dangling from ladders. I saw marital therapists dealing with the ravages of post holiday stress syndrome. But most importantly, as I struggled out from under the weight of the tree, I realized that some things in life never change.

The perfect tree doesn't exist. Nor do the perfect holidays. My tree was a mess. Cher never looked so bad. But rode hard and put away in pieces, this tree was mine. I already had a certain fondness for her and come hell or high water, she was gonna be OK. My health was another matter altogether.

OK SKIPPERS… YOU CAN COME BACK TO THE STORY NOW

For nearly ten years we continued the tradition of the ornaments. The tree became weighted with the images left by so many who'd shared Christmases with us. Their ornaments became the collective soul torches lighting the boundaries of our lives. At the time, I suppose we were living in the moment and neither of us understood the importance that the tradition would someday hold.

Sarah Lee and her husband attended one of the last holiday parties we hosted. The night was crisp and the guests arrived from all over the Intermountain West. Straight, gay, young and old came to witness what by now had become a spectacle. Year after year, the same thing happened. The tree crashed. And every year we came up with bigger and better ideas to prevent the fall. Yet in spite of our creativity, the tree still crashed.

We never knew when it would happen. Sometimes the tree came down just as the first guest arrived. Other times the tree did her thing midway through the party. And once, the tradition happened as all through the house not a creature was stirring except for….except for the plunge of the tree and the shattering of a bazillion petite ornaments. Asleep in our beds, we all heard it. A beautiful, fragile sound that was hauntingly similar to what itsy bitsy Waterford crystal snowflakes might sound like encountering a concrete floor. The noise echoed through the apartment as hundreds of ornaments bid farewell to their happy little lives.

So we had a certain history. Repeat guests wagered on the exact time the tree would cease to exist in its former beauty. Virgin holiday guests were more restrained as they marveled at the tree and her elegance. Circling around the tree, touching ornaments and commenting on the lights, those who had never attended our gala before were impressed by the sheer volume of work that went into the tree before their arrival.

Sometimes I think our tree was the northern version of the piñata. Beautifully and intricately decorated on the outside, but hollow on the inside, it often seemed like her only real purpose was a gloriously brave, yet beautifully tragic demise. Rather than hitting our creation with sticks in the central American tradition, we simply overloaded her with garlands, bows, lights, and everything else.

Offering Sarah Lee a spiced cider and her husband John a drink, I spoke with John about his days as a pilot and his love of hiking. Although this was our first meeting, the conversation flowed freely. I'd backpacked throughout much of the Pacific Northwest, and as we talked, we discovered that we had trekked over many of the same trails. Both Sarah Lee and John loved the northwest mountains and spoke fondly of property they owned near Colville. Every once in a while, I would catch a stolen glance between Sarah Lee and John; affectionate looks that only confirmed their love for each other was something very special.

Other guests arrived and people mingled, renewing old acquaintances and establishing new ones. As the house filled, the evening became lighter as laughter and tall tales replaced shy initial awkwardness. The holiday lights twinkled on the outside balcony railing while our tree stood proudly in the middle of the room. Finally Dallas chimed a few times on a glass and dimmed the lights, announcing that it was time for everyone to gather around the Christmas tree and hang their ornaments.

As our friends, neighbors, and guests stood one by one to place their ornaments on the tree, beaming smiles filled the room. The fire cast the warmest light over everyone's face. Outside the sky relinquished delicate snowflakes. The windows iced against the chill. Eventually only two of us remained to place our ornaments on the tree: Sarah Lee and me.

Sarah Lee stood first. "You know," she began in a soft southern voice, "I have known Tim and Dallas for a while now. We have had some wonderful times together. And we have learned a lot from each other. Anyway, I couldn't decide what to put on their tree at first." She looked at Dallas and then glancing my way grinning, she winked. I prepared for the worst.

"I couldn't make up my mind between these two ornaments and I finally decided to bring them both. John?" She looked to her husband.

John leaned forward, handing her the first ornament. Hiding the ornament as she spoke, she continued, "I made this and as I did, I thought, 'those two boys have become such an blessing in my life." So it seemed fitting that this would be the first thing I wanted to put up on their tree." Pausing, she looked down at the ornament still hidden in her hands, then continued. "This heart belongs on their tree so that they will always know that they have a big part of mine." Turning so that everyone could see her, she unwrapped a beautiful handmade heart. The ornament was colored with sequins utilizing all the colors of the rainbow. "I wanted my heart to be a part of your Christmas." Sarah Lee raised her multicolored, hand-stitched sequined heart into the air so that everyone could see it. Soft sighs rolled around the room as everyone exclaimed how beautiful it was. Bending over, she hung the heart from a branch and then faced those gathered again.

"The other ornament I brought will probably have special meaning to Tim. You see Tim and I have enjoyed many challenging political discussions over the course of our friendship. As most of you know, Tim's politics are a bit on the liberal side. In fact, I sometimes believe that they are dangerous to his future well-being. As his good friend, I felt it was important to be an example to him. Recently, I’ve watched small but very important changes occur in his outlook. And as a mother, I couldn't resist the opportunity to reinforce and guide him as he embraces a new way of thinking…" Sarah Lee once again paused for effect, shooting me a charming southern smile.

What was she up to? True, our discussions were often political. And heated. On the day the infamous ‘94 "Republican Revolution" occurred, I was among the first people Sarah Lee called. "Tim, do you realize what's happened? We have had a peaceful revolution in this country! A completely organized change of power is happening. Isn't it just fascinating to be alive during this time?" She was as joyful about this turn of events as I was dismayed.

I wondered what Sarah Lee was up to as she prepared to introduce her second ornament.

She spoke softly. "I didn't think anyone else would bring an ornament quite like this one. And as you’ve said, we needed to bring an ornament that represented us. Well," she grinned, as John handed her the second ornament, "what could better represent me than a Republican elephant? We thought you needed some balance on your tree."

She held up a beautiful handmade elephant ornament constructed in gold and purple. Everyone laughed. Her clever introduction and creative talents, complimented perfect timing. Nodding at me, Sarah Lee sat back down. I didn't know what to say.

But by some strange coincidence, my ornament tied in perfectly with hers. Standing up, I walked to the center of the room. "Thank you, Sarah Lee, for your moving demonstration of bipartisan motherhood. This year for my ornament, I thought it would be fitting if you all saw that there is truth in the phrase ‘saving the best for last.’" I paused for effect. When I was sure I had everyone's attention, I continued. "Tonight, nothing could be truer."

"Its just so happens that my ornament is a cowboy riding a donkey. The same donkey that is the mascot of the Democratic Party. I can think of no finer honor than to place this symbol of liberty, justice, and honor upon our tree. Long live the Democrats." Numerous cheers followed my description of my ornament.

I wasn't really a committed Democrat, but I was very certain they were better than the alternative. Sarah Lee gave me a scowl and then laughed. John smiled. Placing my ornament on the same branch as her elephant and heart, I turned and faced my guests.

For a moment everyone was silent as they watched the tree. Then a peculiar thing happened. Watching the guests in front of me, I noticed everyone’s heads begin to tilt in the same direction. "That's odd," I thought, turning to see what they were looking at. I pivoted just in time to see the tree crash into the middle of the couch, landing right on Sarah Lee.

For a moment the room fell silent save for the chinking sound of the odd ornament rolling around and the echo of a collective gasp. Sarah Lee’s arms could be seen sticking out as she embraced our beloved tree. Nearly everything but her arms was buried under it's branches. Other guests struggled to free her. Ornaments lay everywhere, lights hung precariously on guests and several of them were covered in tinsel. Those able to get out of the way attempted to assist the trapped. An eerie silence accompanied the rescue operation. No one knew what to say until Sarah Lee, finally freed, broke the ice.

Emerging from under the tree she looked at me and slowly spoke in that sweet southern voice of hers. "Tim! Now do you understand what happens when you add the Democrats to the party? Everything falls apart!"

The room erupted in heartfelt laughter and relief. The party was a hit. Our's was a Yuletide bi-partisan coup.

____________________________________________________

Following Dorothy’s cancer diagnosis, we received, like rapid fire, similar news about both of my grandparents. My grandmother Billy fought breast cancer, while my grandfather Orin faced lung cancer. For a little over a year the three of them squared off against their illnesses together. Then Sarah Lee was diagnosed. A compassionless doctor coldly explained to her that they'd found cancer in her lymph nodes.

Having witnessed the results of cancer in my family, and the sometimes equally ravaging results of the treatment of the disease, Sarah Lee drew a line in the sand. Referring to the diagnosing physician as "Dr. Death," she told me over a long distance phone line that she would not be pursuing either radiation or chemotherapy.

"I am not going to let them do that to me. Now I know every one thinks I am crazy but I just feel I am on a different journey. And it is a path I must follow alone." Sarah Lee spoke calmly as I looked out the frozen panes of a Maine Thruway phone booth. Outside the snow fell and the skies glowed in rose tones. Still shocked at the news, I felt everything turn surreal. "You know Tim, when I first heard the diagnosis and that doctor sat there so calmly discussing the end of my life, I almost followed along with the plan. Do you know they already had me scheduled for treatment? They hadn't even talked to me! I went home and John and I cried. I felt powerless and then the next day I realized this is my life. No one is going to tell me how long I have left here. The following morning I canceled everything and fired that doctor!"

Although her treatment plan was unorthodox, I never questioned her. Sarah Lee began to work out and took charge of her negative thoughts. Beginning a brave path of exploration, she confided those mile markers to a very select few. Turning away from most aspects of the traditional medical establishment, with John's total support, Sarah Lee sought the treatment of holistic medicine.

Over vegetarian lunches Sarah Lee told me of her renewed understanding, and enlightenment. And a new refreshing awareness of the world around her. Vibrant and bright, she fought to regain not only control of her physical outcome but also to reclaim the spiritual. As her excess weight disappeared, she told me she had never felt better The cancer was completely gone. Absent. In its place, Sarah Lee had a new lease on life and a new take on the world around her.

Her coworkers thought she was crazy for opting out of traditional medicine. But Sarah Lee counseled me that even if she didn't overcome the disease, the quality of life she had would never compare with whatever extra time traditional treatment might have bought. She had witnessed the hair loss, the nausea, the regiments of doctors, and the discomfort my own stricken family members had endured.

"Tim, its like I am on this incredible journey. I am so conscious of things that I wasn't conscious of before. And I have this whole new spirituality that I don't think most people would understand. Sometimes I am overwhelmed because I feel the best I’ve ever felt in my whole life and yet I am supposed to be dead by now!"

I took from her example everything I could. Her life was about risking everything for something that "might be" more fulfilling. Her fight was about faith. No guarantees. No promised outcomes. She was about what "might be." Her life encompassed vulnerability. Especially where it mattered.

Sarah Lee, without knowing it, showed me an imperfect pathway that I'd missed along my travels. It was a pathway back home and toward an imperfect family. The path was there. If only I'd risk it a little.

I'd not spoken to my parents for several years at that time. As the cancer plaguing my grandfather progressed, he begged Dallas and I to try to see it in our hearts to come to Seattle for Christmas. To 'try' to be part of the whole family. To 'try' to be together for just one holiday, one Christmas. A Christmas he probably knew would be his last together with us.

Because of Sarah Lee’s example, priorities changed. Pride didn't seem nearly as valuable. Pursuing compromise, we dropped grudges, letting go of things that in the end didn't mean anything.

Speaking to Sarah Lee just before we left for Seattle, I admitted that I was nervous. "Oh Tim, do you just want to fire sale this? Or do you really want a change? Can't you just take a deep breath and go?"

The situation was potentially explosive. My father was proud. Dallas was proud. My grandfather outdid them both. Our friends thought that trying to find some sort of common ground with my parents was ludicrous.

But the wisdom of Sarah Lee's advice brought calm to my nerves. I realized that my grandfather's asking us to be there was all the reason we needed to make the trip to my parents’ home. When it counted, he'd been there for us.

That Christmas, for some reason, magic filtered down upon us from the northern heavens. No one screamed. No one stormed out. No one was thoughtless. My parents’ Christmas tree stayed upright. Looking back, one photograph I still have sums up the special moment of that night. The photograph shows Dallas and my grandfather, in my parents’ home, their heads thrown back, laughing. Laughing with joy.

Even now it remains a priceless moment.

My grandfather lost his cancer battle first, passing away a few days before the following Christmas. That year there was no ornament party. Five years would pass without a tree. The ornaments remained packed away. Waiting. Waiting for light. Lingering in the dark. Yet prompting a restlessness that defies description.

My neighbor broke the news. He was waiting for me to pull in as I returned from a trip to Walla Walla. Seeing my truck, he grimly walked over to the ranch. I noted, watching him as he walked, that it was a glorious Indian summer day. One where the fall colors start to appear and overhead the blue sky seemed impossibly clear.

"Hey, Tim. Did you have a good trip?" Richard asked.

"Yes Richard, I believe I did." I looked at him smiling and he shifted his weight. Something was wrong.

"Well I 'm afraid I've got some pretty bad news Tim. Sarah Lee isn't expected to make it through the night." The words hit hard. From the expression on Richard's face, he wasn't having an easy time of it either. I'd referred Richard to Sarah Lee and she'd sold his home in Spokane a few months prior. Richard and his wife thought pretty highly of the transplanted southern lady as well.

The news he carried shocked me. "I had no idea. The last I talked to her, before I took off, she was doing great. All signs of the cancer were gone. Sarah Lee was doing so well and she was so positive…like she'd beat it. "

Richard nodded compassionately. I felt almost as if the wind was knocked out of me. Time suddenly seemed to slow. Less than a month since we'd buried Dorothy, I was still trying to put things into some mental order. Fighting the tears that threatened, I listened as Richard told me the few details that he knew. The brokerage in Spokane was handling calls on behalf of the family. Sarah Lee took ill suddenly but she'd known that the end was near about a week prior. True to character, Sarah Lee was involved in her own final arrangements.

Neither of us said anything for a minute while overhead two ospreys dived, attacking a bald eagle riding the thermals. The day was glorious in that textbook perfect western way. As I absentmindedly watched the dogfight above me, I couldn't help but wonder that on such a wonderful day something so awful could happen. The moment faded and Richard turned, telling me that he was sorry and to keep him posted if I heard anything. He walked slowly and silently down the lane connecting our places. I watched as his image took on the shade of the Ponderosas and the wind made a soft cleansing sound through the canopy.

When I called the brokerage in Spokane, the woman who answered broke down in tears after I identified myself and inquired about Sarah Lee. Our conversation was short and painful. There was very little to say. We would wait and say our prayers and hope that they were heard. She promised to keep me informed.

I was overcome. I am not one to cry but on that day the sobs were impossible to suppress. Sarah Lee was more than a friend; she was more than an adopted mother. She was family in a way that is impossible to define. I believe it was no accident that our lives collided.

Sitting in the living room, I could still hear the way her soft southern voice admonished me. "Tim, Why haven't you called me?" Smiling through the tears I recalled the way she once told me that I was like her, "tenacious to the point of stupidity." Honest and sincere, she never told me what I wanted to hear but quietly and gently offered what she thought I needed to hear. Her motherly instinct became counsel that kept the subtle yet fragile ties open between me and my parents, and I credit her with preserving those bonds.

Suddenly aware that everything in the room was red, I looked up. For a second, I felt paralyzed with fear. We were right in the middle of forest fire season, and my immediate thought was FIRE! Rushing outside, I ran across the deck and stopped. I could hardly believe my eyes. What I saw is forever imprinted in my mind as the most beautiful goodbye I would ever know.

Running back inside the house, I grabbed my camera and dashed back outside. Taking pictures, the tears returned. I stood still on the deck trying to take it all in as Sarah Lee exited this place. Her flight on the wings of the Creator silenced me. I believe with everything I know that The Good Lord and Sarah Lee conspired together on that day. As they walked across the sky, arm in arm, Sarah Lee chose the colors, painting the sky with a depth and intensity that I have never seen. Down below, on the river, the waters became still mirrors reflecting the orange-red fire in the sky above. Soft purples and blues filled in the gaps not carried in the sky. Overhead geese took to gentle flight and then nothing moved. The wind hushed. The sky darkened. Peace reigned.

I did not need a phone call to tell me what I instinctively felt. As I silently watched the brilliance fade, the night retake the day, and the soft hues overcome the stronger ones, I knew that Sarah Lee was leaving us. This was her final gift. She was saying goodbye.

Sitting down on a chair, I let the renewed stirring of the evening breeze dry the tears, the sigh replace the anguish, and the calm that comes with initial acceptance, comfort me.

Later, what I already knew in my heart was confirmed in a sad telephone call. As the woman from the real estate agency began to tell me the news, I asked if she'd seen the sunset down in Spokane. She began to cry. "Yes, it was so amazing! It was the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen. Everyone has been talking about it. I think people saw it throughout eastern Washington and northern Idaho."

"You know, you may think I am crazy," I said, "but I believe that was Sarah Lee giving us her benediction and blessing as she began her journey."

The woman lost her composure. Through the sobs she managed, "You know Tim, I believe you are right. What a way to say goodbye."

"Yes, but it was Sarah Lee all the way." And we both knew I spoke the truth.

A few days later my grandmother and I attended Sarah Lee's funeral. As we entered the sanctuary, an usher handed a bulletin to us. On the cover was a photograph chosen by Sarah Lee as she made her final preparations. While some of her favorite music played in the background, I stared down at the bulletin. Hands shaking, I caressed the image. The beautifully simple but intentionally chosen picture said volumes about the woman we'd lost. Yet, the picture I grasped could not equal the real time beauty I'd witnessed a few days before. Still, the image was powerful and symbolic just the same. Tears returned as my grandmother and I squeezed each other's hands.

Affirming our speculation that Sarah Lee's final departure, flying on the wings of a heavenly palette was correct, the cover of the bulletin illustrated a tall ponderosa pine tree. A lone tree, silhouetted by a glorious fire in the sky, western mountain sunset.

Lying on the floor of the living room, awakened by the sound of J.D., Collin, and a woman named Mary Lou tromping across the wooden back porch, I struggled to come to my senses. Disorientated for a minute I stared at the tree. Fully lit with Christmas lights and draped with garlands, the only things missing were the ornaments. Knocking on my door insistently, the waiting troop outside forced me into hyper action. J.D. smiled as I opened the door. Observing that he was still somewhat buzzed from the previous night’s bar crawl, I hugged him just the same. Standing behind him, Collin looked pale and definitely hung over. To his left, Mary Lou's eyes met mine with a smiling sparkle.

Closing the door behind them, I watched as Collin moved lethargically. Defining slow motion, he attempted to make a good impression but was laden with the burden of a hangover. Each step seemed like a lesson in "Easy now…"

After everyone settled into the house and an hour of warm friendly 'how do's' and friendly conversation passed, J.D. and Mary Lou set off for town to grab fixings for dinner. Collin asked me about the tree and I explained that there were numerous ornaments awaiting our attention. Appreciative when he volunteered to help put them up on the tree, I was caught between a smile and thoughtful introspection as we both began unpacking the ornaments. Putting hooks in the generic glass ones, he handed the ornaments to me in twos and threes while I hung them from the branches.

Taking a deep breath, I finally approached the first box of the more personal decorations with longing and dread. "Well here goes," I said to myself as I opened the boxes containing so many memories. As the lonely, laid over trucker watched me with interest, I opened box after box of memory. Explaining the ornament Aunt Dorothy gave and the ornaments of Sarah Lee, I put into context the simple dangling treasures. The room filled with the gentle scent of vanilla as I uncovered a few of the hand decorated air fresheners.

Collin listened to my explanations of the history of each ornament, focusing on every word. And as the tree took on the afterlife of a previous life, Collin began to add his own share of holiday memories to the mix.

Somewhere along the way I finally identified my fears. The source of my restlessness. I felt the peace of understanding replace the uneasiness of why this trip home to decorate was a "have to" rather than a "want to." By nature I am a coward of the heart. I am more afraid of the potential affects of pain on the soul rather than physical pain on the exterior.

Admittedly I am not real good at facing things that trouble me. It is easier to procrastinate. It is far more difficult to address the uncomfortable "whatevers;" those particular glossed-over difficulties that make a settled man's conscience itch, keep sleep at bay, or feeds restlessness.

Maybe it is the uncertain outcomes or the fear that once those thoughts are unleashed, getting a handle on them will become impossible. Humpty Dumpty falls. Parts of him shatter. But the fear-related question becomes, "Can he be put back together again?"

I attest that sometimes, no make that most times, it’s easier to brush things aside. It is easier to become hardened and immune from the assaults afflicting the deeper senses than approach all that they represent. The male of the species excels at such behavior.

Often men, even during the holidays, are the first to chastise anything resembling a "chick flick" experience. We love to mock sensitivities that could potentially touch the heart.

I am guilty as charged. Macho is cool. Male femininity is frightening. Someone once called me the "Mary Tyler Moore" of trucking. The comparison troubled me. I didn't see myself that way. Mary appeared to be vulnerable, lost, and overwhelmed. Was any resemblance to the character realistic? Were people actually expecting me to stand in the middle of the Flying J truckstop parking lot, throwing my cowboy hat in the air, and smiling as some cheesy country western singer crooned, "You’re going to make it after all?"

I don't think so.

But eventually I reconsidered my initial awkward, uncomfortable reaction. So what if I was compared to the little woman from the Twin Cities? What is wrong with being vulnerable, open, and admitting that sometimes personal strength isn't always in the cards? Real man this. Real man that. Real man faces the holidays and crumbles.

Bah humbug to real men.

We kid ourselves thinking that compassion makes us less attractive to those who seek strength rather than weakness. In our masculine, hyper imaged Tom Cruise/Brad Pitt world, it seems that those who give pause to the workings of soul and heart are discounted.

Oprah is for women. Wrasslin' is for men. Men fight wars. Women cook. Men drive big trucks. Women drive Celicas. Men cut down Christmas trees. Women decorate them.

But as I stared at all those damn boxes full of memories, I must admit I almost turned chicken and ran. Inside those cardboard containers lay both joy and pain, a collection of memories that remained golden, haunting and sad. Cooped up, begging to come out, those ornaments hadn't seen light in years. Boxed up along side all those ornaments were closure and final acceptance. I was a coward. I was afraid of looking back. Worrying I wasn't strong enough. Afraid to take a peek at all the times I'd once shared with loved ones. By opening those boxes, I’d have to admit they were really gone

I'd postponed the holidays for too many years. The restlessness was real.

Unpacking each ornament one by one, I knew many of the decorations were held once by people I would never see again. In each box, captured by simple ornaments, powerful forces lurked. Yet, how could small ornaments possess so much power? How could they represent enough potential unraveling to keep me fearfully on the run for years? How could objects given in love become so difficult to face?

Whether hand-created or store bought, these gifts represented both perfect and imperfect times. Silently waiting for that moment when once again they could be surrounded by light, the ornaments lay ready to twirl, sparkle, and dazzle.

And remind.

Now daydreaming, my vision blurred as I gazed at the empty boxes and the nearly decorated tree. I suddenly understood why some folks became so cold and hardened at the thought of the holidays. I began to see why bitterness defines their attempt at surviving the season of light. Separated from the embrace of full participation in noel by layers of past holiday trauma, the path of least resistance meant methodical plodding forward. For some, it is easier to look away rather than face the prospect of looking back. The pain of reconciling the disappointment, the bittersweet memories, and the combined losses we all endure, is easier if avoided. It is safer to just keep emotions shelved, move on and forget.

I knew their story. It was mine. By lowering my expectations, I couldn't be disappointed. By avoiding the traditions of the season, those memories that were packed away in boxes for years couldn't confront me. I didn't have to return to happier times, or acknowledge that not all stories have joyful endings.

Those whose childhood holidays never measured up, where drugs or alcohol split families and shattered the season, what do they do with their "less than" recollections? How do they piece together the fabric of the season for the next generation? I see them, wounded, rummaging through the toy store aisles, trying to overcompensate for their children, all the time denying their own ruined innocence. I see their haunted expressions as they desperately attempt to give their children something they never had.

I’ve come to believe that Christmas is as much about the darkness as it is about the light. The contrasting of the two is the whole point. According to the story, the child whose birth we celebrate wasn't born in the light.

He was born in the dark.

A darkness, that if I read it right, included poverty, confusion, and bitterness. As an adult, I know now that Santa doesn't come every year. Not every Christmas season will measure up or qualify for inclusion in my "Best of the Holidays" collection.

For five years, I refused to acknowledge what I'd been given. Instead my focus mistakenly lingered on what I thought I might be missing out on, future memories with all of the people who were gone from my life. Haunted by the fear that all the best times were behind me, I let fear extinguish the future. Now, looking at the marvelous tree before me, my eyes moistened. Suddenly I realized that what I still had, all those wonderful memories, were renewable gifts. Those priceless ornaments were gifts that would keep on giving. Their purpose wasn't to just keep me looking back. Their purpose was also to keep me looking forward. For as long as I would let them.

___________________________________________________

J.D. and Mary Lou returned from the store. Watching Mary Lou and J.D. interact in the kitchen was like witnessing the strangest unspoken harmony. Over the course of our brief introduction, I learned that for five years Mary Lou had raised J.D.'s two boys. After her husband walked out, Mary Lou found her life turned inside out. Struggling against numerous pressures, the little she had she shared and whatever she lacked in resources she more than made up for in true grit. So when J.D.'s boys needed someone to look after them, Mary Lou rose to the challenge. Never limited in the amount of love she had to give, she took in J.D.'s boys as if they were her own. She talked about the trials of her life, and I listened as a tale of devotion, unconditional love, and sacrifice filled the room. J.D. stayed quiet while she spoke, occasionally interjecting additional information when the mood struck him.

As J.D. began to barbecue steaks, odors from the kitchen filled our senses. Everyone examined the job Collin I had done decorating the tree. Laid over truckers, short on love and loved ones, sat looking up in awe at wondrous branches of the "Christmas Tree - Made in China - 7 ½ Foot Tall Artificial Oregon Spruce." J.D. came over to where we sat. Taking several ornaments in his hand, he held them up to the light while smiling the uninhibited smile of a child. Innocent. Sweet. Filled with wonder. They were precisely the adjectives one wouldn’t normally associate with the cowboy.

"I like this one. Look at those colors. Hey Tim, don't you think those colors would look awesome on a long-nosed Petercar? Or how about that purple and red one? Them colors would be styling on a W-900 Kenworth, don't you think?" Giggling, J.D. compared one ornament after another with his favorite big rigs. I'd never seen this side of J.D. and as I watched his expressions, I found it difficult to believe that this was the same cowboy who could drink me under the table in a heartbeat.

Mary Lou took interest in some of the other ornaments on the tree. Pointing to Sarah Lee’s heart she asked, "What is the story behind this one?"

The words tumbled forth and the stories of the past became the memories of the present. As we stood around the tree, the air filling with the warm smells of the feast to come, I felt the restlessness depart. Memory by memory the "what was" transformed into the "what could be."

After dinner we took a long late afternoon walk. Underfoot the powder crunched and the trees occasionally dumped great showers of snow from their gentle canopy. The crisp air blasted our lungs, and our breath fogged in front of us. Angling away from the cliffs above the Pend Oreille River, we walked into the darkening forest as day became the frosted snow lit night.

Humming to myself, I walked behind the truckers in their Wranglers and Levis. A familiar tune circled round and round in my head. The song wasn't center stage but lingered off in the distance, accompanying the conversation. While we hiked in silence I thought about Sarah Lee and realized how much I still missed her. I considered her "journey" as she put it, speculating that it was probably better than she'd imagined it would be. I said a prayer for her and wondered quietly if she might be looking down on me now.

I got my answer as the trees parted before us.

Framed by the Selkirk Mountains to the north and Saddle Mountain to the west, the sky erupted into winter magic. Tall broken cumulonimbus clouds made their rugged sunset assault on the mountain ranges surrounding us. The open sky filtered purples, pinks, roses, and reds, reflecting their soft colors everywhere. Painting the snow, the meadows, the blanketed trees and the peaks around us, we stopped in our tracks and watched the sky. No one spoke.

Facing the remains of the sun, we huddled against the cold. The sheen of heaven danced over her earthbound watchers while on the ground nothing moved. As the sky transformed itself from one fading color into another, I felt the movement of heart when confronting something that makes little logical sense.

Sarah Lee must have known. Maybe she saw inside and in the deepest winter briefly returned to warm and thaw away the cold. The sky reminded. My heart felt her familiar warmth. I reflexively shivered against the meaning. Watching the sunset as the sky transformed from one fading color into another, I made my how-do's and how-ya' been's with Sarah Lee. I knew that she was near. Very, very near. My heart told me as much.

Conversation became background noise as we made our way through the darkened forest. Again in my mind I heard that song. Only now I paid attention to it. Halting in the dark I tried to figure out where I knew that voice.

The song wasn't just humming anymore. Lyrics fell open into the night and as the snow sparkled everywhere I turned, I finally recognized the song.

And the voice.

My mind accelerated while I stood still, listening, and stationary. Finally hearing the lyrics, I remembered. "Oh holy night, the stars are brightly shining…"

A carol took wings, whispering out of the night. Reclaiming another time. Sung by a woman with gray beehive hair. A jovial lady, wearing a brightly festive, beautiful costume. One with a few Christmas ornaments hanging off the neckline for good measure.

I heard the carol. I heard Dorothy's beautiful voice. I saw everyone who had been at that Christmas tree party on that long ago night. I remembered my grandfather, his face beaming. I remembered Dallas, his laughter echoing as he and my sister smoked on the balcony. Then strangely enough, I heard myself singing along. I didn't know the words. I couldn't repeat them now. But for that one performance, I followed every lyric, as my lips moved, silently shadowed by the stars. Cool air wiped the moisture from my eyes as I felt the moment end and drift toward the heavens. Instinctively, I wished time would pause.

But it was gone.

In the distance, my friend's voices became fainter and fainter. Running to catch up, I felt numb from the experience I'd just had. I couldn't explain it to anyone but I felt very different. Rounding the final bend before the ranch came into view, I finally caught them.

Near the house the woods parted and it was easier to see. Overhead a dark sky framed the warmth of that humble house with her cozy lit windows, icicle lights, and wreaths draped over railings. Guarded under the shadow of Saddle Mountain, the ranch looked as if it was intended to be watched over by high mountains, lit by winter constellations, and kept protected by deep snows.

Yet the most startling thing catching my attention as we approached the house, was the view of a tree standing in the middle of the living room. Viewed through the windows, the tree seemed elegant. But it wasn't. It was just a simple "Christmas Tree - Made in China - 7 ½ Foot Tall Artificial Oregon Spruce." One covered in lights and garland. Buried in ornaments handmade and store bought. A tree reflecting out through the glass, coloring the snow and warming the night.

Motionless, everyone stood in the middle of the lane, our eyes absorbing the entirety of the scene. It was an image I could embrace while inside my heart, I felt more emotion than I could ever express. I held onto it. I didn't run. I didn't put the boxes of memories away. I lingered. I remembered. I was thankful.

But more than anything, in that moment I realized something more important than any thing else. No matter what happened during these holidays, no matter what tree crashed or what gift was exchanged or what memory happened for the last time, one thing will always hold true.

The tree still shines.

Merry Christmas!