We all have been stuck at home for the last 40 weeks as the world and our nation went through one of the most divisive presidential campaigns in our history. We have finally settled on this year’s winner, at least, I think we have.

So, last week, my bride suggested we should get off the couch, turn off the TV, put down our devices, and get ready for Christmas. I said we should start by writing a Christmas letter. You know something like: This year, my bride won her second Nobel, was nominated for a Pulitzer, and Meryl Streep optioned her life story.

That suggestion was met with a resounding “No.” Then she said we need two trees this year – one inside, one outside. That was a surprise, as we had been moping around for several weeks, and I wondered if we would celebrate Christmas at all.

My first task was to go into the woods, saw down a skinny little balsam fir, trim it up, and stick it in a large but rather ragged flower pot.  After several tries, I found the right spot so we could see it from inside the house. Then I spooled a couple of strands of white, non-twinkling lights around and – voila! Christmas tree outside.

The next day was a good day for a ride in the country, so we headed to Beth’s Farm Market in Warren. We could use some of their cheddar cheese, a few root veggies, and we had always had good luck with their trees.

We found a likely candidate right off the bat, and a friendly farmworker helped me hoist it on top of the SUV and lashed it down with a length of garden cord.
I walked back inside the store, as my bride wrapped up her purchases, including a lovely stash of leeks, when a nice man walked up to me and pointed to our car. Are you going far?” he asked. “Boothbay,” I answered.

Using a very diplomatic turn of phrase, he suggested that the way I had lashed the tree showed off my city boy roots. He said the tree was likely to fall off, say somewhere this side of Damariscotta. Then he smiled and said he had a ratchet tie-down strap in his truck. “Wait a minute till I grab some groceries, and I’ll help you dog it down,” he said.

A few minutes later, he pulled a bright orange ratchet tie-down strap out of the back of his truck, threw one end over the tree, and ordered me to hook it to the roof rack.

He hooked the other end of the strap and cranked the ratchet until it was tight. “That’ll get you to Boothbay,” he said.

I thanked him, and he said he was recently retired from a nearby school district, and his wife just retired. Then he smiled and said they planned to sell their home, buy an RV, hit the road, and see the nation. That sounds like a lot of fun I said and asked him for his address so I could return the ratchet tie-down strap.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said and with a smile and a wave, “Merry Christmas.” Then he got in his pick up, patted his little fox terrier and backed out. When I checked the tree once again, I realized I couldn’t wait to put it up in the usual corner of the family room.

The next day was Saturday and, after morning coffee, I rummaged through the garage looking for an old cast iron sewer drain housing that my dad used as a Christmas tree stand. As I held the cold iron housing for a moment, I imagined I could see dad hike up his old grey corduroy trousers as he instructed me on the correct way to put up a Christmas tree.

First, he said to stuff the tree’s trunk into the iron housing and put both in an old galvanized washtub. Then all I had to do was to stabilize it with a few wooden shims, add water, and the tree would stand tall and (mostly) straight. I did as instructed, and, after a quick trip to Grover’s Hardware store for 300 mini-lights, the tree was ready for the glittering ornaments.

For us, and I suspect for you, between the pandemic and the divisive political election, 2020 has been a real downer. It has been tough to get into the Christmas spirit.

But last week, when a kind stranger offered us a smile and an unexpected gift of an orange ratchet tie-down strap, and in the garage when I held that old sewer drain housing, it gave me the hope that Christmas 2020 just might be happy, after all.

Merry Christmas to all.