Ladies & Gentlemen, as a 60th birthday gift to my wonderful father, I give you.....
A ways back, Dan decided it would be hilarious to move us to Pittsfield, Massachusetts. I had just barely graduated high school. Brendan didn't even have leg hair. Mom had 11,000 dogs. No one wanted to go, but we did. Pittsfield has 2 seasons: Holyfuck Winter & 50 Degree Summertime. Lovely place. We had a gorgeous house that looked on to the mountains and every damn morning, Dan would say "look at that view!" and then he would scream, "Brigid, get the hell out of bed and go get a job!" It was a special time.
Dad tried everything to get Brendan & I to adore Berkshire County just as much as he did. He bought us snowboards. We tried it. I think I broke my ass. Brendan, talented in many ways, is pretty much helpless in the Coordination area. We ended up taking flasks and drinking in the woods like the Virginia hillbillies we are. He drove us up to Mt. Greylock and had us overlook the beauty of New England. Then told us we were all going on a camping trip and would be carrying our own gear. We got lost as fuck about 20 minutes in and Brendan started crying and saying we were going to have to eat Fritz, our dog. Lastly, Dad said, "we are going to go cut our own Christmas tree down this year!" I said, "no, we are fucking not, Dan." That's a lie. I think my mom said that. And off we went……
A dad, a mom, 1 son, 1 daughter and Hoban, our dog, ventured off in to the mountains lush with perfect Christmas trees and so many happy, caroling families. We grumbled and dragged our asses through 19 inches of snow. Dad declared, "here is the perfect tree! Morons, cut it down." That term of endearment was directed at my brother & myself. Armed with 1 fucking small hand saw, we started sawing at the tree trunk like damn lumberjacks. I got tired about 15 seconds in. Dad was saying, "get further under the tree, Brendan! FURTHER!" Brendan creeped his whippet thin ass down there and kept sawing while rolling around in needles and snow. Only I can hear him saying "sonofabitch fucking tree….fucking trees in the mountains…'cut it down, cut it down'…no, YOU cut it down, Old Man….mothershit ass." Meanwhile my mother is screaming that Hoban is cold. HOBAN. Can we mention Hoban is the DOG? The dog covered in insulating hair who eats his own feces? Yes Mother, let's rush back to the car for the DOG.
I am just laying in the snow contributing nothing other than wondering if we are going to die out here. Brendan continues to swear & saw under the tree….and then I smell it. "What is THAT SMELL?" Dad says, "it's holiday cheer, goddamit. CUT DOWN THAT FUCKING TREE, BRENDAN!" I said, "no…..it's dog shit." We all look around. We all glare at Hoban. We are in endless puffs of pristine snow. No dog shit. So weird because the smell is up my nostrils with a vengeance.
Brendan finally cuts the tree down. It falls over and we all stare at it. Dad says, "drag it to the car, morons." We begin dragging. THE SMELL. My mother is screaming, "Who stepped in dog shit?!" Brendan turns around and we see it…….pounds and pounds of dog shit covering the back of his coat from neck to ass. It's everywhere and everyone begins screaming. "It's on your back! Your BACK, DUMBASS! It's EVERYWHERE! Get the tree! Get the tree! Hoban is scared, we have to go! OH GOD, THE SMELL!" We are a damn disaster and then we make another fun discovery: we have just dragged the TREE through all the dogshit.
At this point, a cloud of unparalleled profanity erupts from every single person present. I vaguely remember Brendan crying that his precious lacrosse jacket was ruined and all he wanted for Christmas was Rogaine for his legs. I recall screaming at my mother that moving forward, I would refuse to wear dickies under sweaters and to stop accusing me of smoking 'The Marijuana' (to her it is a proper noun) as it was just clove cigarettes because I was edgy & cool. Mom was ranting about how this happened because we didn't go to church with her 19x a week and Dad….well, Dad got his Serial Killer Look. It appears very rarely and only at times of severe, aneurysm-inducing stress. (Note: it happened a year later when I came back from Australia with a $4,000 Visa bill…..on his card).
Dad simply said, "Get. In. The. Fucking. Car," and we did because you do NOT argue with the shaky-faced, white-knuckled Serial Killer Face. We drove home with our feces filled fir on top of the car. We silently cleaned it off. We placed in our living room…..and kind of got a warm feeling in our hearts in a "wow, this was kind of worth it" way. It brought the real spirit of the holiday back to us and we enjoyed a nice moment looking at that tree we had struggled so profanely to obtain. We hugged each other and chuckled quietly and shook our heads like "we so crazzzzy!"……and then that motherfucking tree fell over spilling water and needles all over my mother's spotless living room. My dad said, "fuck this," and we let that asshole tree lay there for days.
Happy birthday, Dan Schmutte - Florida Resident & A Supporter of Fake Christmas Trees since 1999.
2 comments:
Happy birthday to your dad! But I have to say, I lived in Pittsfield for years and years and never once cut down a Christmas tree. You guys are crazy! Makes for a good story though. And your house there was gorgeous and then add on that view! Glad your family had the brief stint in the Berkshires otherwise our family paths wouldn't have crossed.
Brie -- You are the funniest person EVER!! Thanks for always making me laugh!
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