The Wrath of the Wreath

(Der Zorn des Weihnachtskranzes)

(Begriffe: Weihnachtskranz, Weihnachtsdekoration)

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My first Christmas in California was an eventful one. Any year in which a move occurs is stressful, and, as a 6th Grader, I had spent the last 5 months adjusting to my new school, making new friends, and getting to know my new surroundings. As such, I looked forward to Christmas break as a relaxing time with my family. Little did I know that a simple wreath would do its best to wreck havoc on our Christmas.

It started innocently enough on Christmas Eve. My mother was out doing some shopping in preparation for the Christmas dinner we were hosting the following day, and I helped my father with the last of the Christmas decorating. As we finished putting up the garlands and Christmas lights around the fireplace, he stepped back and admired our work.

"It looks really good," he said, "I just think we need some kind of centerpiece."

The middle of the wall above the fireplace did look like it could use something.

"Yeah. What do you think we should put there?" I asked.

"Maybe a nice wreath?"

"That's a good idea. Can you call Mom and ask her to buy a wreath?"

My father thought about it for a moment before answering.

"I could, but I don't want just any store-bought wreath. What if we made one? There's a big pine tree out in the front yard, and I think we could cut some twigs from it and make a wonderful wreath."

And so, my father and I went out into the yard with some hedge clippers to begin making a wreath. After a few minutes of trimming from the pine tree, we had plenty of material to make a wreath. However, something else caught my father's attention.

"Look at those beautiful leaves over there," he said, gesturing at a thicket of bright orange and red leaves, "I think they would add some beautiful color to our wreath."

"No! Don't touch those! That's poison oak!" I said, knowing from playing in the woods with my friends exactly what those leaves were.

"Don't you mean poison ivy? Besides, that's not poison ivy. It's just a small oak tree with beautiful fall colors."

"No. That's poison oak. Jake told me if you touch it you will get a horrible, itchy rash."

"I think Jake is just pulling your leg. There's poison ivy, but not poison oak," said my father, walking with the hedge clippers over to the shrub.

"Don't touch it! Please!" I yelled.

"You just watch, there's no such thing as 'poison oak', and these leaves are going to make the wreath beautiful and colorful," he said, cutting and collecting some of the bright red leaves.

I watched in a mixture of fascination and horror as he collected up the poison oak leaves, the pine sprigs and got some twine to tie the sprigs together. Soon he had assembled a stunningly beautiful Christmas wreath of green pine and red poison oak leaves, and hung it above the fireplace.

"See? I told you it would look good," he said, holding up his hands, "and no rash."

"Yes it does look good, but I think it takes time for the poison oak to cause a rash," I replied.

"I told you, there's no such thing as poison oak."

My mother arrived back from her shopping, and my father proudly showed off his creation.

"It looks wonderful! You were very careful in handling the poison oak though, right?" she asked.

"Poison oak?" asked my father, suddenly looking concerned.

"Yes... it's like poison ivy but has leaves shaped like that," answered my mother, pointing at some of the bright red leaves in the wreath, "you did wear gloves and washed yourself thoroughly after making this, right?"

My parents frantically rushed to the shower.

The next morning, on Christmas, it was obvious this attempt failed. My father struggled to open his Christmas presents due to the blistering red rash on his hands and forearms, and when he fished the small gifts out of his Christmas stocking, he left the stocking stained with pus.

"Alec, we really have really got to do something about that rash. It looks awful, is dripping pus, and everybody will be horrified by it at Christmas dinner tonight," said my mother.

"I know. It's really itchy too, but I know if I scratch it, it will make it worse. I was thinking I should bandage it up," replied my father.

"Yeah, that would probably be a good idea."

My mother fetched the first aid supplies, and soon set about wrapping my father's hands and forearms in gauze.

As she finished, my father held up his hands to inspect her work.

"You look like a mummy!" I said.

My mother laughed, but my father was less amused.

"Do we have some gloves?"

"I think there might be some in the drawers in our bedroom," my mother answered.

My father got up and went off to search for some gloves. A few minutes later, he returned wearing a long-sleeved shirt that covered his forearms, and some black leather gloves.

"You look like a hitman!" I said.

Again, my mother laughed, but my father, though still not amused, evidently preferred being a hitman to a mummy, as he kept the gloves on as we set about preparing the house for the many guests that would be arriving that evening for Christmas dinner.

By evening, we had a nice dinner table set, and our guests were lounging in the living room, chatting and awaiting dinner. A few even commented on the poison oak in the wreath.

I sat in the living room, chatting with my Uncle Ryan, Aunt Clare, and their six year old daughter, Melissa, and, as I explained to them how the wonderfully colorful wreath had given my father a horrible poison oak rash, little Melissa screamed.

"Ewwwwww!!! There's a spider!!!" she screamed, pointing at the ceiling.

Everybody in the room instinctively looked up, and we saw not just one spider, but dozens of them, traversing the ceiling and walls. This volume of spiders unnerved even the adults, who began stirring as my mother entered the room with a broom.

Whack! Whack! Whack! My mother frantically swung the broom, dispatching spider after spider, as everybody else looked on and pointed out any she missed. However, even after dozens of swings, there were still spiders on the ceiling. It became clear that they must have been coming from somewhere. As the spiders seemed to be concentrated near the fireplace, she carefully scanned this side of the room before her eyes settled on the wreath.

"Dang it! There must have been eggs on that wreath," she said as everybody moved to inspect the wreath. Sure enough, numerous spiders swarmed among the pine needles and poison oak leaves.

Satisfied that everybody could see this was the source of the spiders, she used the fireplace tongs (as not to get poison oak or spiders on her hands) to lift the wreath off the wall and put the wreath into the fireplace and before shutting the fireplace doors.

"That should stop the spider invasion for now. We'll torch it after dinner when we get the fire going," said my mother, replacing the fireplace tongs with her broom to finish off any remaining spiders.

Dinner soon started, and went with only minor incidents. My father's black leather gloves made it difficult for him to cut the Christmas ham, and the occasional thwack of the broom being used against a spider occasionally interrupted the conversation. However, the worst disaster of the dinner occurred when little Melissa innocently asked Aunt Liz where Uncle Peter was, and Aunt Liz broke down in tears, as they had just gotten divorced.

After dinner, everybody piled into the living room to digest on the sofas and chairs, and engage post-dinner casual conversation around the fireplace.

My father opened the fireplace and put some newspaper in under the logs to start the fire as my mother stood by with the broom to whack any escaping spiders. He then fumbled with the matches in his gloved hands, until he finally managed to get a match from the box and struck it against the box.

Scratch...

Scratch...

Scr-BOOM!

A blast of heat enveloped everybody in the room as an explosion of flame shot from the fireplace. For a moment everybody stood silently, looking at my father, who now had a very unique, smoldering hairstyle.

"I'm OK!" he said, as the smell of burnt hair filled the air, "But what happened? There can't possibly be a gas leak, this is a wood burning fireplace."

My Uncle Ryan looked inside the fireplace at the smoldering wreath.

"Did you happen to make that wreath from the big pine tree out front?" asked Uncle Ryan.

"Yes, why?" asked my father.

"That's a Jeffrey Pine. You should be very careful with Jeffrey Pines and fires. The sap is mostly heptane, which is so explosively flammable, it's what causes engine knocking in low-grade gasoline. Back in the day, when they distilled turpentine from pine trees, a number of factories exploded when they accidentally used Jeffrey Pines. The vapors from the wreath probably accumulated to flammable levels in the enclosed fireplace and when you struck the match..." explained Uncle Ryan.

"First the poison oak, and now the Jeffrey Pine... are all the plants here in California trying to kill me?" asked my father.

"Hey, at least all the spiders are dead," said my mother.

"Uncle Alec blew up the spiders!" said little Melissa, laughing.

Everybody chuckled as my mother used the fireplace tongs to remove the remains of the wreath from the fireplace and unceremoniously dump them outside in the trash.

"Hey Alec, can you make another wreath exactly like that for me, please?" asked Aunt Liz.

"Why would you ever want that?" asked my father.

"Oh I think it would make a wonderful gift for my ex-husband!" smiled Aunt Liz.

"Careful Liz," laughed Aunt Clare, "You might get arrested for assault with a deadly weapon!"

And so the banter and laughter continued as my father got the fire going without further incident, and the rest of that Christmas passed without further explosions or spiders. Needless to say, for the following Christmas, my father simply bought a wreath made from harmless green plastic.

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