The Protest Tree

It was three weeks and some change before Christmas 2018 and I wasn’t feeling it. I’d just bought a house that needed a lot of updates and the move and endless remodeling projects had taken their toll. I was exhausted. But the bigger reason for my funk was U.S. politics. The political scene was toxic and scary and the news alternately frightened and outraged me.

Sound familiar?

I couldn’t pretend it was business as usual. I couldn’t imagine putting up a Christmas tree and decorating it as if the mad house all around us wasn’t happening. As Christmas neared, I decided to get a tree that would reflect my Ebenezer-Grinch outlook. A protest tree.

I began googling ‘alternative christmas tree.’ After passing up Birch twigs with twinkly lights (too cheery) and aluminum foil trees (too MCM) and vases filled with curly willow draped in ornaments (too too), I found what I was looking for in an unlikely location: MarthaStewart.com. Martha’s tree was made from PVC pipes mounted on plywood. PVC, the soulless, eff-the-environment plastic that practically shouts “EAT MY SHORTS, WORLD!”

Exactly the Christmas greeting I was going for.

To construct (or more likely conduct) her masterpiece, Martha had a team of decorators, contractors and fairy godmothers to do her bidding. Martha had someone to bring her a hot buttered rum. I had a poorly lit, unheated garage, zero artistic skills, and a stubborn streak. And outrage.

Following the directions I downloaded from Martha’s site, I made several trips to Home Depot trying to find enough of the right sizes and shape of pipes. Plus a pipe saw and a mask so I wasn’t breathing in toxic dust. And spray paint because the different types of white pipe weren’t all the same shade.

Getting a 4x6 sheet of plywood and two 12-foot pipes onto and into my Mini Cooper was no problem for me. I’ve loaded queen-size mattresses on top, hung a dishwasher out the hatchback, and once, ignoring loud protestations from two Home Depot guys, drove home with new shower doors on the roof. “You’ll never get that home,” ‘Paul’ said, as I secured the box with the straps I use for my stand-up paddleboard. His co-worker ‘Gordon’ made sure I understood that neither they nor Home Depot would be responsible for the blah-blah-blah.

Once I had the shower doors safely unloaded at home, I dialed the store and left a message. “Tell Paul and Gordon thanks for helping me load the shower doors. And tell them nanner nanner.”

The hardest part of the tree (and I mean HARD) was cutting the pipe. Except for a Makita drill and sander, I have zero power tools. I also don’t cut straight. I bought a hand-held pipe saw and watched a few YouTube videos, then drew guidelines with a Sharpie and did my best to keep the pipe steady while I sawed. This is not easy, and I’d like Martha to try it even once. I figure I did it at least 200 times. Sawing a few hours each night over the next two weeks, I worked out a lot of anger and worked up a lot of sweat.

Next, I laid out the cut pipe in a tree shape I’d taped off on the plywood, trying to vary the length of pipe to create visual interest, and the diameters of the pipe to leave as few gaps as possible. In doing so, I discovered I was short some sizes, so it was back to Home Depot again. This time I was able to find some shorter pipes with ridges and avoid any more cutting. Score!

Then it was time to spray the plywood and the pipes so they’d be a uniform color. Even after several coats, a few black inventory markings showed through on a couple of pipes. I decided strategic positioning would help and that no one would look that closely anyway. Time for Gorilla Glue.

By the time all the pipes were glued down, my son and I tried to carry the tree into the house. That’s when I learned that my plan to simply lean it against a wall wasn’t going to work. With all that pipe, the tree was too heavy and the plywood bowed so much I was afraid it would snap.

I would have to hang it. So it was back to Home Depot for 100# picture nails. When I finally had it hung on my dining room wall, it didn’t look half bad.

Break out the hot buttered rum! I’d done it, and with barely a week to spare before Christmas!

But.

Once the tree was filled with ornaments, my son Sam said, “That’s nice. But aren’t we going to have a real tree? Where will we put our presents?”

I explained that this was our real tree, and we could put our presents on the floor or on a table next to the tree.

“Oh. That’s great,” he said, giving me his too-wide smile that always means he’s trying to hide his disappointment. Like when he was trick-or-treating and a house would only have candy he was allergic to and he would say, “That’s okay! Happy Halloween!”

While Sam was at his dad’s house that weekend, I found a used artificial tree on craigslist, carted it home, and decorated it before he returned.

“Why did you do that?” he asked me when he saw it.

I sighed. “Because I live with Tiny Tim.”

That earned me an honest smile, a hug, and a “Thanks, Mom!”

Damn you, Christmas.

— — — —

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