*Fiction NOT Fact
As Andy and I entered Sissy’s little cottage, I could see she was an art lover, for every wall contained at least one piece of art. She’s really into metaphysical and paranormal art. There was a lot of really weird stuff hanging on the walls. Behind the sofa were five framed magazine covers from a monthly publication called, Electric Dreams, and next to the dining table was the ‘Heart Expanding’ mandala by Daniela Keller. According to Sissy, this holomorphic vision, whose imagery is channeled through and sourced from a universal matrix and then crystallized into form templates based on sacred geometry and other patterns of nature, actually reveals the interconnectedness of everything. I told her I would have to take her word for it.
It was obvious Sissy had been very meticulous with this whole dinner thing in order to impress Andy. With her pink complexion—from Southern roots, blonde hair and blue eyes, she looked stunning in a deep sky blue silk casual dress with silver sandals, which revealed not only manicured toenails, painted in a vivid shade of pink with a tiny little stick-on fake diamond stuck on each big toenail, but also carefully scrubbed and debrided heels—I figured she must have soaked her feet a long time in olive oil and warm milk to soften the dry cracks radiating up from heels exposed to the elements on a constant basis—and I just couldn’t imagine her wearing shoes for a very long period of time. Her hair was swept up high on her head, exposing antique diamond stud earrings in each earlobe. Her long neck was the perfect surface on which to spray J’adore perfume by Christian Dior, and we were all well aware that she had done just that.
She was a woman with an agenda, and I had the feeling that agenda didn’t include me! When she first laid eyes on me, she had a questioning look come over her face. Most likely she didn’t even KNOW I was going to be there.
And I wondered what, if anything, Andy thought? Was he impressed? Did he like the Dior scent assaulting his olfactory organs? Did the scintillating toenails grab his attention? I just couldn’t tell. He was quite reserved while we were eating.
And what of Glo? SHE certainly seemed impressed with Sissy! She probably had little diamonds stuck on her toenails too—only they were probably real diamonds. She fussed over Sissy all through dinner. The whole thing was just sickening and I wanted to be out of there.
Sissy wanted me out of there, too, because she sent me out to the garden to dig for rutabagas—AFTER we had already eaten, conveniently forgetting to tell me WHERE exactly in the garden I would most likely come across those tasty little roots. So, before I was through, I had dug up the entire garden—it took the better part of an hour. When I returned to the kitchen, she and Andy were laughing and sharing mixed sparkling water drinks.
When I saw the two of them together, a little knife plunged through my heart, just like it had done out in the SUV when I first saw them together. Andy seemed to like her and yet, what about in the forest when he kissed me . . . well . . . ALMOST kissed me—I mean . . . he really DID WANT TO KISS ME! Didn’t he? Now I was confused. Seeing them together like that . . . maybe I was wrong and . . . maybe . . . maybe he had just kissed HER! The thought of that was almost more than I could bear at that moment. I quickly checked his lips to see if they were red . . . AND THEY WERE! And when I looked at Sissy’s lips, they were that same color of red! And that’s when I said . . . but shouldn’t have,
"Andy, your lips are all RED—the very same RED as Sissy’s!" The tone of my voice conveyed surprise and accusation.
He and Sissy then turned towards me, and after a few seconds Sissy said, savoring each word as it came out of her mouth, "You’re right, Ellee . . . same exact color." She licked her lips while eyeing Andy. "What do you make of THAT!?"
I could see, as she narrowed her blue eyes and flashed a sardonic smile, she was really pleased to be able inflict such pain. That’s when I saw her slowly take a ‘stem’ out of her mouth—the stem of a maraschino cherry—they had been eating maraschino cherries!
"Ellee," Andy swiftly added, almost stumbling on the words, "we were only eating these red cherries . . . see . . . in our drinks." And he fished one of them out of his drink and began eating it, deluging his lips once again with the red juice.
Just then Glo entered the kitchen with a glass in her hand, and the same red juice was glistening from her lips. And when I noticed Molly sitting at Andy’s feet, her doggie mouth was stained that same red. Everyone including the dog had been eating maraschino cherries! At that point Sissy picked up a glass of the mixed waters—with several cherries resting on bottom, and handed it to me.
"Here’s yours," she said, still flashing that same smile, still enjoying the moment. But, I wasn’t enjoying it. I had just made an absolute fool of myself. I then lifted the muddy bag I was clutching in my even muddier hand and thrust it toward Sissy exclaiming, "Here are your rutabagas . . . are we having these for de-ZZZZERT!!!????"
At that she threw her blond head back, and laughed a laugh I never want to hear again.
"No," she smirked, continuing to laugh, "they’re for a pot of soup I’m making tomorrow." And she laughed even louder.
But nobody was laughing with her, and particularly not me! I really wanted to be gone from that place. That’s when the phone rang and it was the hospital calling her to work for an emergency, and being a nurse, she had to leave immediately. But just before she went out the door I overheard her telling Andy,
"After the weather changes, call me and I will take you sailing in my new boat, The Blue Sea. We can swim and scuba dive. Then I’ll cook a nice, romantic dinner for us." Her voice lowered considerably on the last few words. I didn’t hear Andy’s response, if any.
Our trip to the shed at the back of Andy’s yard yielded all the tools we needed to plant that so-called ‘tree,’ which, I realized, with all that had taken place, first in the forest and then at Sissy’s, I had forgotten about. I now recognized the time had finally come to face the possibility of the exposure of the true identity of Andy’s potted Christmas tree, which wasn’t really a tree at all, but a slew of chemicals and petroleum cooked together and then extruded, painted and finally tweaked into being a tree. Indeed, I was prepared to answer Andy’s questions about the tree, when or if he discovered its plastic nature. I would just tell him Molly did it.
"The first thing we need to do," said Andy as we arrived at his special Christmas tree forest, "is lay out a grid with this string."
He held up a large ball of string for all to see. Molly jumped up and barked, thinking it was going to be a game of catch. I could see that all his other trees from years past were laid out precisely on a grid with equidistance between them. It looked . . . well, funny to me to see trees all in calculated rows . . . like at a tree nursery.
"Why do we need a grid to plant a tree?" I asked, not understanding.
"Ellee, this act of planting my Christmas tree each year has become a very important tradition for Mom and me." Gloria confirmed this as she was nodding her head. "This little ceremony is based on ancient Indian planting ceremonies which these local Indians used whenever they planted trees. We follow each step precisely as they did. And they used a grid. It makes us feel like we’re one with the land. Not only that, we often sense the Great Earth Spirit here . . ."
"Andy," I broke in, "I don’t think the Great Earth Spirit wants these trees all lined up on the co-ordinates of a grid."
"Whaaat? Are you questioning this ancient Indian ceremony?" He seemed astonished by my statement.
"Well . . . it just doesn’t look . . . natural . . . I mean, in nature a tree grows where the seed falls, and I don’t think they fall exactly on the co-ordinates of a grid that you measure out with a huge ball of string! I mean . . . look at the rest of the forest—it’s not ‘on a grid.’"
Gloria then spoke up and turning to Andy said, "She’s got a point there. What she says makes sense." Andy, being nonplused explained,
"It all has to do with the relationship of these coordinates right here, on this land..." he was pointing to the ground, "to the coordinates of the Constellation Panthera out there in the cosmos . . . " He was now waving his hand across the cosmos. " There is great power that comes when these two sets of coordinates line up exactly, one being superimposed over the other, and that happens only on the last day of December and only at dusk."
"But," I pointed out, "This isn’t the last day of December; it is the NEXT to the last day."
"According to the ancient Mayan calendar this IS the last day of December."
Well, my mind was spinning from all that, but, as I reminded myself, that tree wasn’t going to grow anyway, even with the great power which was sure to come at dusk when all those grid coordinates lined up. I wondered what the Great Earth Spirit would think about that? I wondered if the Great Earth Spirit even knew about plastic trees, and if he did, did he care? And if he cared, what would he do about it? All these questions flooded my mind but I said, anyway,
"Okay, fine, let’s get on with the grid."
Which we did. And as soon as the three of us had formed a network of intersecting vertical and horizontal lines with the huge ball of string, making the necessary coordinates to connect all the previous trees, we established the exact position of the latest addition to this cosmic grid.
Our next step, according to the ancient Indian ceremony, was to measure precisely from the string cross hairs out two feet in each direction and place a mark. Using each of these marks Andy made a perfect square with white chalk dust. This was the area from which the soil would be removed—and that, too, was done according to this ancient Indian ceremony.
Andy carefully took the shovel and held it up to the cosmos, asking The Great Earth Spirit for permission to remove the sacred soil which was placed there so long ago. I figured the Great Earth Spirit was probably okay with that, but wanted to make sure so I asked,
"Is he cool with that . . . I mean, he won’t be mad or anything, will he, or—?"
"Shhhhhhhh . . . " Andy stopped me in mid-sentence.
At that point Andy walked to where his Mother was standing and ceremoniously presented the shovel to her. Whereupon she placed the curved blade next to ground inside the square and scooped up a little of the dirt, placing it gently outside the white chalk line. After which she handed the digging instrument over to me, and as my eyes questioned Andy, he indicated that I was to do likewise—which I did. Molly stood at attention during all this, not daring to move, probably not wanting to offend the Great Earth Spirit. Andy then took the shovel and continued digging until he had cleared away the dirt to about a four- inch depth within the square. He said the depth had to be exactly fifteen millimeters deep. The millimeter part puzzled me, so I asked,
" It doesn’t really say millimeters does it?" When he shook his head ‘yes’ I continued,
"How can that be? They didn’t know anything about millimeters. Most likely they would have used a measuring device of evenly spaced knots tied in strands of twisted Schizachyrium scoparium grass (bluestem.) BUT certainly NOT millimeters or even inches for that matter. WHERE does it say millimeters Andy? Are you certain about this? Maybe you misread it."
"Ellee . . . " he was agitated now, I could tell, "are you questioning this ancient Indian ceremony again? You know . . . these Indians KNEW what they were doing! It is NOT for us to question! Just keep quiet and do what I say. Mom and I have followed this ceremony for many years now, and just look how well all those trees are growing!"
He swung around, proudly pointing out his forest. I had to admit those trees looked very good. Very healthy, very green AND VERY ALIVE. BUT, I had to wonder about the one we came here to plant. How would it look next year? And the next? And the next? I wondered at what point the two of them would discover my secret. Maybe today. But if not today, when? We continued with the ‘ceremony.’
"The next thing we do is build a big fire in this shallow pit." Andy instructed.
"Why?" came my response, but I already knew the answer "Yes, I know, it is part of the ceremony. But—"
"The Indians believed the fire would ward off evil spirits and cleanse the ground, plus it warms the soil, making it easier to dig a fifteen-millimeter deep hole."
"Well, wouldn’t it make sense to wait until spring when it's not so cold? I mean trees usually aren’t planted in the dead of winter, anyway."
"Ellllllleeeeeeee," I knew from the way he said my name I shouldn’t have asked that,"why are you constantly asking these . . . these . . . queeeeeeestions?"
"Well, Andy, none of this ceremony makes any sense."
"Wellll . . . it obviously made sense to the INDIANS!!!"
He then looked to his Mother for some kind of confirmation, whereupon she looked at me, and the two of us looked at Molly, and then the three of us looked back at Andy, and Molly remarked,
"Woof, woof."
"Ohhhhhhh . . . WHAT—EVER!!!" He declared, agitated. And then went on laying a fire within the boundaries of the square.
The fire blazed for about fifteen minutes, then the coals took over to do their work, at the end of which, Andy cleared the remains away, and packed them with the earth we had removed from the hole. This, he explained, would be used later to fill in the hole, because the ashes were now just loaded with some sort of mystical powers which would somehow—I never got it straight how—combine with the grid hook-up at dusk to produce what the Great Earth Spirit called, SecOm hon ba ba—something no gardener would want to be without, once he/she had used it.
With the fire out of the way, Andy proceeded to dig the ‘sacred tree chamber,’ which according to Andy’s interpretation of those Indian ceremonial rules, had to be exactly sixty millimeters wide by two feet long. Once again I found myself meddling where I probably shouldn’t have.
"Andy!!!!" I blurted out, after trying unsuccessfully to stop myself, "what in tarnation does that mean????!! You can’t tell me those Indian rules . . . or whatever you call them . . . say ‘sixty millimeters wide by two feet long! You’re just making that up! That’s just plain non-sense; it’s ridiculous!"
Andy responded by throwing his shovel on the ground and shouting out , "Dang it all, Ellee!!! . . . why are you making this SOOOOOOO difficult!!!????? All I’m trying to do here is plant my Christmas tree in a way that will promote the best possible growth. I love that tree and want the VERY best for it! Can’t you SEE that? This is how we do it each and every year, and it’s never failed yet!!!!"
I then felt it my duty to get him accustomed to the idea that it was going to fail THIS time, so I said,
"On the off-hand chance, that it just might possibly somehow fail . . . " I paused a second to let that sink in, "uhhhh . . . what then?"
"Ellee, are you trying to doom this to failure before we’ve even got it in the ground?"
"No, but . . . " I knew I was treading on sacred ground here, "it could happen."
At that he just glared at me, and I felt at that moment, I had lost some ground with him. But he HAD to be forewarned, at least a little bit, about his tree. I didn’t want this reality hitting him all at once. He continued to glare, but picked up his shovel and finally started digging again.
After twenty minutes, precisely measuring after every two or three shovels full of dirt, first the width, with the metric side of the stick, and then the length with the Imperial side, he announced that now he would excavate the depth. The depth? I wondered what the rules said about that. I hated to ask, but keeping my mouth shut is not one of my stronger points, so after several minutes of struggling to keep quiet, my curiosity finally got the better of me and I DID ask,
" I don’t mean to upset you, really I don’t, but . . . I‘m just very curious. What do those Indian ceremonial regulations say about measuring the depth? I mean, is it metric or Imperial?"
"BOTH!" was his terse answer, as he continued digging, not wanting to discuss it any further.
After a few minutes of digging he used the metric ruler to measure the depth on the Imperial sides of the square, and the Imperial ruler to find the depth on the metric side of the hole—go figure! But he was completely serious as he performed his work, never once appearing to question what he was doing. And Glo . . . where was she in all of this? Well . . . I have the feeling, and it is ONLY a feeling, that she thinks it’s all kind of , what should I say? . . . hokey , but of course, she didn’t say anything and of course, I had the good sense AND restraint NOT to say anything, either.
BOTH, I thought. Of course, why didn’t I think of that? The whole thing was so ludicrous I didn’t want to continue trying to straighten it out in my brain any more. I would just play along with whatever wacky thing he came up with next—and that was just about to happen. It had to do with a frost dance, which, he explained, is similar to a rain dance only it’s not supposed to increase rainfall, but increase the ground temperature to a more moderate degree, which would help in not killing the roots—those STEEL roots, mind you. So, for the next fifteen minutes, the four of us engaged in ‘ceremonial anti-frost foot movements around the square hole that was waiting for the tree. At the same time we were dancing, we were also chanting:
Sayatasha, orpingalik, omeoteotl
Kothluwalawa, yanomamo orpingalik,
Omeoteotl lawa yano ayata
Ingalikaya teotlayata
Which, in a loose translation means:
O, great Spirit of Mighty Frost,
Don’t freeze the roots of this poor tree,
Cuz if you do, it will be lost
Yes, lost forever it will be.
[Author’s Note: Well, I told you it was a loose translation—you can’t get any looser than that]
After our performance of chant and dance, another question popped into my mind, but I realized I couldn’t very well ask it. By that time I had asked more than my quota of questions for this project. However, it continued to tease my mind, and I thought maybe I could ask Glo—she wouldn’t take it so personally. So I leaned over and whispered in her ear.
"I have no idea," she proclaimed out loud. "Why don’t you ask Anderson?"
"Shhhhhhhh" I said, trying to hush our conversation so Andy wouldn’t notice.
"Ask Anderson what?" Andy spoke up. "Ellee, now what? What is it you want to know?" His irritation was still evident.
"Nothing." I answered, lowering my head slightly.
"What is your question NOW?"
"I don’t have a question."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don’t"
"Yes, you DO!"
"I SAID I don’t have a question!"
"Ellee, just ask the damn question!!!!"
But I didn't dare ask the question. He continued to glare
"Ellee!!!!!"
"What?"
"Are you going to ask your question? Time’s wasting. It's going to be dusk soon and we still have work to do. If we miss the cosmic alignment of these two grids . . . well . . . you can guess how I’ll feel about that!"
And yes, I could guess how he would feel about that, so I figured the lesser of two evils was to ask the question. So I did.
"That hole . . ." I hesitated.
"Yeeeeeeees . . . go onnnnnnnnn . . . I’m waaaaaaaiting"
"Uhhhh . . . why is it square . . . and not round . . . like holes usually are?" There, I had asked it. I cinched my arms up close to my sides, waiting for his wrath to be unleashed . . . and then it came.
"Whaaaat???!!! . . . now you’re questioning the hole?"
"Well, I mean . . . uhh . . . what difference does it make if the . . . I mean why does the hole have to be . . . square? Is there any reasoning behind that?"
He looked at me kinda funny. I could see he was searching. The data was in there somewhere. He just needed to retrieve it. But then,
"Well . . . ummmm . . . I DON’T KNOW . . . OKAY?—IT JUST SAID TO DIG A SQUARE HOLE!!!
He was yelling soooo loud, we heard it echoing around the forest, bouncing from tree to tree. And he was really beside himself now. I couldn’t determine if he was upset with me for asking the question, or upset that he didn’t know the answer, or upset because he had suddenly realized how ridiculous it was to dig a square hole. When I looked over at his mother, I could see she was stymied by the whole thing. And the dog had just lost interest altogether—she was sound asleep in spite of the noise.
After a few minutes Andy pulled himself together and started off toward the SUV. It hit me that he was off to get the TREE! I knew I couldn’t let him do that alone—I was the buffer between him and the reality of that tree!
"I’ll help you with the tree, Andy."
"No, Ellee . . . pleeeeeeeeeeeeese . . . stay there with Mother. I can handle it," he said, making huge, long-legged strides toward the vehicle. I had to run to keep up with him.
"I want to help"
" What I DON’T NEED right now is your help." His teeth were clenched.
Normally in a male situation like this one, what I would have done, would have been to back off—immediately. But in this particular instance, with so much as stake, I didn’t have that option. What I needed was a different strategy, so I said,
"Please, Andy, please . . . let me help carry the tree. I REALLY do want to be a part of this . . . this . . . ummmm . . . important ceremony. It means a lot to me, just like to you and your mom."
And it REALLY did mean a lot to me—an awful lot! I shudder even to think about his reaction if he HAD discovered that his beloved potted Christmas tree was an imposter.
That stopped him cold. He turned to face me. "Really, you mean that?" He was searching my expression—to verify what I had just said.
"Really," I confirmed. Then, staring straight into his eyes, I lowered my voice to reveal something which I knew would get his attention, "The Great Earth Spirit . . . and even the . . . The Great Tree Spirit have been here."
His eyes, now locked intently on mine, had widened significantly. I had succeeded in getting his full attention.
" And Andy," I lowered my voice even more—to a mere whisper, " . . . they want me to help carry that tree."
He didn’t move; his eyes narrowed; he seemed mesmerized, actually—he was spellbound. Either that, or immobilized by the whole idea that the Great Spirits had been there. So, in order not to break this spell, I took his hand and quietly led him to where his tree was waiting to make it’s last journey to it’s final resting place. I carefully took the trunk end, not saying anything, and let him have the other end, and together we carried his Christmas tree to the square hole that was waiting for it. He was none the wiser at that particular point. Now, I thought, if we could just get that dang tree into the ground with no last-minute discoveries, I would be home free.
By then it was getting very close to dusk. The last remaining light of day was minutes away from being snuffed out by the winter storm swirling in. That great cosmic alignment was about to take place, and we certainly didn’t want to miss it!
"What’s next," I asked him.
"This is Mom’s part," he answered, looking over at his mother. "Mom, are you ready?"
She nodded, and then walked over to a white styrofoam ice chest and lifted the lid. Molly immediately sprung to attention, and dashed to her side, trying to get inside the box. Glo shooed her away and Molly uttered a little whine to show her displeasure. She wanted something in the box. Glo reached inside and pulled it out. I was amazed she would even touch it. It was a dead fish, and as she lifted it up, I could see its dead fish eyes, all glazed over with a white film. And the stench was unbelievable. Glo thought so, too, as she wrinkled up her nose, and then holding it as far away from her as her arms would allow, she rushed over to the square hole and chucked it in. That’s when Andy exclaimed,
"WAIT!" And immediately dropped to his belly, and hanging over the hole reached inside to retrieve the dead fish, but before he succeeded, Molly beat him to it. She was down in the square hole growling and shaking her head back and forth, dead fish clenched safely in her jaws. Then she jumped out and started running. By that time, Andy had bolted up and started after her, yelling at his mom and I to help chase her down before she ate the fish.
With the three of us running after her, Molly was going nuts trying to evade each of us, darting first from me, and then from Andy, and then from Glo. Finally, when we had her cornered, her eyes bouncing from Andy to me, and then to Glo, Andy got down on his knees and patting them said,
"Molly, here girl. Nice Molly, come to Daddy. Right here. Come on . . . there, that’s a nice doggie."
Slowly, Molly began inching cautiously toward Andy, the malodorous fish still in the tight grip of her jaws.
"Come on sweetheart, give Daddy the fish. Nice girl." Andy was making little kissy-kissy noises, which brought Molly right up to him, and she finally dropped the stinking fish at Andy’s knees.
"Goooooood girl . . . goooooood dooooogie" He rewarded her with all the scratching she wanted.
Finally Andy stood up, and looking overhead at the sky and the descending dusk exclaimed,
"We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to beat our deadline."
The three of us scurried back to that square hole, which, after Molly’s romp inside, had lost some of its squareness—the corners were now slightly rounded. I was about to say something, but Andy didn’t seem to notice, so I figured it would be less than sensible to mention it. Which I didn’t. Andy then took the fish over to Glo and said,
"Mom, you need to spit on it first before we put it in the hole."
He then shoved it right under her nose so she could perform this part of the ceremony. I was glad it was her and not me. She pinched her nose shut and then worked up enough spittle to spray the entire fish, and then shoved it away. Next, he brought the stinking thing over to me and shoving it under my nose said,
"Ellee, it’s your turn now."
"No, no , no!" I slapped my hand over my mouth, pinching my nose shut and then backed away. "Take that thing away! I’m NOT spitting on it!"
"Ellee!!! If you don’t spit on it the ceremony won’t be complete."
Well, I knew that wasn’t true. So I still refused, but he still insisted.
"Andy, why do I have to spit on it?" It was a valid question, I thought. "What difference will it make if I don’t spit on it?"
"Ellee, just spit on the damn fish!!!!!!"
"YOU spit on the damn fish!!!!!!!"
"Elllllleeeeeeeeee . . . " He cast narrowed eyes squarely on mine and wouldn't let go. I could see there was as much determination coming out of those eyes as what was coming out of mine. We had arrived at an impasse, and were now locked into stare-down mode. He was determined I was going to spit on the fish. And I was just as determined that wasn't going to happen. Finally, his mom intervened,
"Ellee, could you just spit on the damn fish so we can get on with the damn ceremony?"
After several moments trying to stare Andy down, I came to the realization this was a ‘spit or not’ situation. If I didn’t spit, that tree just might not get planted, and then I would have more problems to deal with than spitting on a fish. However, if I did spit on it, I just might upchuck. But, I finally concluded it was in my best interest just to spit.
"Alright," I conceded, eyeing the fish as Andy brought it within spitting range once agreement had been reached, thanks to me.
I had no trouble collecting the needed amount of saliva. In fact, my salivary glands had all at once kicked into overdrive—I could feel them spurting out copious amounts of the stuff, shocking the tiny nerves under my tongue, as the scent of the rotting fish entered my nostrils and made its way to my olfactory nerve, which in turn sent a very insistent signal straight to my stomach, amassing bile and stomach acids alike, ready for immediate deployment straight up the esophagus, bringing the partially digested clam chowder, chicken, green beans and chocolate mousse along for the ride. When it became apparent what was about to take place, I frantically searched for an appropriate place to make this unseemly presentation, but instantly ran out of time and the only place left to me was—yep, you guessed it—THE SQUARE HOLE.
I knew at that minute, my life as I had known it was just about to end. I could hear Andy’s tirade about how I had completely ruined his ceremony—NO WAY would the Great Earth Spirit accept this most hellacious of donations. It hadn’t even made it onto the fish. At the last nanosecond before the expulsion, I had diverted the trajectory away from the fish, which also happened to be in alignment with Andy’s face, thus saving Andy from . . . well you can see the problem.
I immediately dropped to my knees and peered into the gaping square hole, now dripping with the personal contents of MY stomach.
"Ohhhhhhhhh Andy," I cried, because now I WAS crying, "I . . .*sob* I . . . I . . . *sob* . . . I’m . . . soooooo sorrrrrry, * sob* I didn’t . . . *sob* . . . mean to cause sooooo much trouble . . ."
"Elleeee!" he cried out, dropping down beside me, gazing into the hole with complete astonishment, "JUST LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!"
Well, I guess I deserved it. I was ready for it. I probably had it coming, and here it was. He was about to unleash all his fury and frustration. I closed my eyes tightly and cringed . . . steeled for what was on its way . . .
"Ellee . . . you . . . you . . . YOU’VE MADE MY DAY! This is absolutely incredible!"
He had grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face him as he spoke. "Do you realize, according to ancient Indian records, human vomit is the absolute ultimate sjoehl, as they call it, even better than fish? Your vomit . . ." He was now wiping my tears away with the hankie his mother had handed him, and dabbing around my lips, clearing the remains of the . . . sjoehl, as his thumb was tracing the outline of my lips, "is worth more than many, many fish."
I was more than pleased that my vomit had such high value placed on it. He continued,
"These Indians used human vomit in the planting ceremony when they had no fish. Then, down through time, they learned that human vomit was actually better than fish to fertilize the tree or whatever they were planting. But as humans became more civilized, spittle replaced the vomit. Most recent records show that spit was symbolic for vomit. Ellee, don’t you see . . . you have given your ultimate to this tree. Do you have any idea what that will do for . . . our tree . . . Ellee, it IS our tree, you know. You are part of this tree, and it is part of you, as I am part of it and it is part of me. Because of you, this tree will grow to unimaginable heights, and one day we can come back here together and see the result of OUR labors here today."
As I looked into his eyes, I was speechless. I realized there was absolutely nothing at all I could say. There were simply NO words.
After that we proceeded to unwrap —carefully, mind you—OUR tree, saving the trunk for last, which I personally unwrapped only milliseconds before we lowered it into the square, vomit-laden hole. Andy had already thrown the fish in for an extra punch of sjoehl. By then I knew the remaining light was dim enough so that neither he, nor his mother, would be able to detect the true nature of our tree.
As Andy squished the last bit of soil snugly around the base of the tree, he instructed his mom to bring the ashes from the fire and spread them on top, and me to dig them into the dirt inside the square.
Once we were finished, Andy looked up toward the cosmos and declared that dusk had just officially arrived. Silence fell over our little group, and as we stood there by our tree, that night, in Quogue, in Andy’s forest, under the Cosmos, something incredible happened—the mighty coordinates of the Panthera Constellation grid were now superimposed over the less mighty coordinates of Andy’s little forest grid, and what occurred then simply cannot be described with any amount of adequacy.
The entire cosmos was glowing at that moment like a supernova, the light of which caused us to shield our eyes from its brilliance. Every one of the twenty-five planets in that constellation were flashing first red, then blue like a gigantic cosmic neon sign. And then when they all stopped spinning on their axis and reversed their direction, we gasped in wonderment. Molly started barking; she knew something extraordinary was happening. And all the trees in Andy’s forest from years past were lit up just like they had been in their days of Christmas glory. The air around the four of us was in an agitated whirling state, accelerating faster and faster with each passing second—we were caught up in some kind of electrical vortex. The hairs on our heads were standing straight out, and we could feel something powerful was occurring. It lasted for only one minute, then it was gone. We all looked at each other and drew a deep breath. We had experienced something unimaginable. We knew nobody would believe us if we told them, so I think we understood at that moment, we could never share it with anyone.
At that precise minute, the storm arrived in the form of large, softly falling snowflakes. When Andy caught sight of them, he quickly snatched one from the air with his tongue, flashing one of his teasing smiles, the one which highlights his dimples and causes his eyes to laugh, the kind of smile that is so contagious, it’s irresistible. I began laughing, and he did, too. Then his mother joined in, and when he started running through his forest catching snowflakes, he called back to us,
"Come on, let’s catch snowflakes with our tongues!"
And so we did, including Molly. She knew this game and loved it! For the next half hour we chased snowflakes and danced around our tree, which, if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, seemed like it had already started to grow.
Bye for now,
Love,
Ellee
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