Christmas, Chainsaws and Critters

by admin | December 24, 2024 6:30 pm

Suddenly, it is Christmas.

It is going to be a wet Yule week. The rain is welcomed after a particularly dry (and ridiculously warm) autumn. During this three-week break from working in the LeTourneau library, I shuttle here at Three Geese Farm between working in the shop on my latest woodworking project, a large Craftsman-style ottoman, to wielding a chainsaw out along Glade Creek, which runs through our property.

The ottoman will replace a fake-leather one that the cats over the years have largely destroyed. We keep it covered with a quilt. Pet owners know the routine: Buy nice furniture and then cover it with thick covers or put up with the damage. Leave it bare and suffer the consequences. At least the furballs are older and largely ceased their destructive habits, now doing what adult cats do best — sleep and eat. The new ottoman will have a thick fabric cushion, which should prove more durable. It will match other pieces built in the same style with black walnut and/or red oak over the past couple decades — a sofa, Morris chair and matching ottoman, the desk on which I write, a few tables, and a bookshelf.

The chainsaw — which I have a love-hate relationship that might plunge me into therapy with its contentiousness — is being used to cut tree limbs along the creek’s fence line. The creek overflowed its 15-foot banks a few years before we bought the farm, pushing down the t-posts and wire when the floodwaters bounded into the adjoining pasture. I clear the limbs on each 10-foot section, take the tractor and use the box blade attached to the three-point hitch in the rear to shove the t-posts and attached fencing upright, careful not to plunge the tractor and myself backward into the creek. That would result in a rather bleak holiday season.

The weather is perfect for hobby farming on this Sunday before Christmas — about 45 degrees and overcast skies. There is something liberating about working outside in East Texas while wearing a sweatshirt, thick pants to protect against sticks and brambles, boots, earbuds, a beanie covering my ears and balding scalp — and doing so without breaking a sweat.

Best not get used to it, being East Texas. But I am having a lovely time. How could I not?

To my surprise, this effort to fix the fence line while spending little money — a few gallons of diesel for the tractor, fuel and chain bar oil for the chainsaw, no lost fluids from my pores — actually worked. Out of roughly 250 yards of fencing, only about 80 feet has to be replaced. In the New Year, I will call my fence guy, a genial fellow whose given name of Nacimiento has inevitably in East Texas been shortened to “Nacho.” I will also pay Nacho to build a new side fence connecting the Glade Creek fence to Pancho’s Pasture, thus more than doubling our grazing space.

Then we are going donkey shopping! At 25, Pancho could use some companionship, a belated Christmas present for a beloved member of our family. After all, Pancho sports a furry black cross along his spine.

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Daughter Abbie, while home from graduate school at Thanksgiving, took charge of decorating the tree with her impeccable style. It’s an enchanting, cheerful tree. She has a true gift for decorating, whether it is a ballo[1]on arch for a 16-year-old’s birthday party — or a Christmas tree. Abbie is a doctoral student in information technology and plans to enter the academic world. If that doesn’t work out, I am convinced she could be a professional party decorator.

Since not long after Halloween, our house has been filled with Christmas cheer, thanks to the decorating skills of both Abbie and My Beautiful Mystery Companion. The displays of Santas of all sizes and styles, the life-size (if you’re short) Nutcrackers standing guard by the fireplace, the various creches — including one my parents bought when I was an infant that now sits in my office space — all of this gives us joy. It also provides the cats opportunities for exploration whenever they tire of napping.

Then there is the miniature cloth puppet of Snoop Dog dressed in an elf outfit and smoking a spliff, which is perched in a wicker basket on the lid of the guest bathroom commode.

We have an eclectic collection of Christmas cheer.

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A new addition to the critter collection spent a few weeks here, a granddog named Teddy. Teddy is a Havanese and Maltese mix — a Havamalt, which sounds like a soda fountain soda drink, to those old enough to remember those largely extinct counters in drug stores. (If you are ever in San Augustine, the eponymously named San Augustine Drug still has a soda fountain and sells the regionally renowned grapefruit highball. Non-alcoholic, of course.)

Teddy is ridiculously lovable, a bundle of energy who loves to visit and hang out with Mollie, our Maltese, and Gatsby, our rescue cavapoo who is now officially a therapy dog. Tater the Blubba Nugget cat tolerates Teddy, while Olive the Kitty hides in my BMC’s closet when Teddy is around. We’re going to work on that relationship in the New Year.

Tater has taken to sleeping under the Christmas tree. No doubt he will be miffed when it comes time to take it down. Olive jumps into my desk chair most anytime I vacate it, while Mollie is fond of perching on top of that couch I built, the better to gaze out the picture window and keep an eye on Pancho.

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It has become a tradition of mine to tell this story each Christmas. My earliest memory of Christmas is from 1959 or 1960. I can’t be sure if I was four or five years old. We always spent Christmas Eve at my maternal grandparents’ house outside of Concord, N.H., a tiny house crowded with cousins on that night. I was lying in my grandparents’ bed, looking out the windows, which were narrow and near the ceiling, so you could see the stars.

I saw Santa Claus streaking across the sky and realized I had better get to sleep, or the old man might skip this house. My cousins would really be upset with me.

Sure enough, in front of the fireplace the next morning were gifts from St. Nicklaus. The plate of cookies held only crumbs, and the carrots for the reindeer were gone.

I know. Probably it was an airplane headed to Boston, or perhaps a meteor shower. I prefer to believe it was Santa. Certainly that’s what I thought back then.

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My wish is that you and those you love — or at least tolerate — have a Merry Christmas. Be safe, be kind, and God Bless. We’ll talk again in the New Year.

Source URL: https://garyborders.com/pages/christmas-chainsaws-and-critters/

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