The Queen of Festive Timber

Since I was a little girl, I wanted to be in the Santa Claus Parade. It was deeply nostalgic for me. It was my special time spent with my dad where he could feel like a kid while I revelled in the magic.

The parade left an indomitable mark on my life. Though I was raised on a diet of Jesus and St. Nicholas, I loved to see the guy in the red suit. I always hoped that St. Nicholas would high five Santa so he could show up in my life and give me the gift of sparing me from attending midnight mass and all the other ecclesiastical obligations over the Christmas season.

I adored all the characters in the parade except for the clowns. They scared the shit out of me. I only felt safe around the upside-down clowns, convinced I could outrun them if ever I was chased by one. The princesses in the big round skirts waving as they strolled through the parade made my heart flutter. The polar bears and other characters filled the procession with magic and were beloved.

Years later, the daughter of a dear friend was going to be on Santa’s float. He asked if I would like our daughter to participate, the caveat being I would also have to be part of the parade to look after the girls. An unequivocal “Yes!” and a few months later I was being fitted for my parade costume on a hot summer day. With the excitement of a five-year-old, I showed up to the secret location, disclosing my favourite characters while being measured up for what felt like a fitting for a wedding dress. I was exponentially more excited than the girls. What was an opportunity for them was a dream come true for me. I drove home imagining myself as a princess, a tiger or something just as magical. It would be fantastic. I would be the custodian of enchantment in the most magical parade.

When the day of the parade arrived, the weather was miserable, but I was excited. I made my way to the secret base where all the individuals in the procession were to gather. Security was tighter then what I’ve experienced at The Canadian Air Transport Security Authority. Both (CATSA) and the (TSA) could learn a thing, or two from Santa.

I felt a particular camaraderie to Mr. Claus seeing he was formerly the celebrated drummer of an oom-pah-pah band in the days when beer pubs existed at Ontario Place. A destination I frequented.  No surprise his LinkedIn found him the ultimate Chairman position – Santa Claus.

I reached over and handed my slip of paper to the woman behind the temporary reception table who was overseeing the hustle and bustle. She left and returned with a big, cumbersome green outfit. WTF? I thought. This isn’t a princess or cute polar bear. I politely relayed that there had been an error. “I believe I’m a princess.” “No mistake” she sternly replied. “Are you sure?” I responded, flabbergasted and destroyed. “Positive” the poker face woman shot back, “you’re a Christmas tree.” She reviewed the paper, confirmed the pertinent details, handed me the costume and went back behind the mystical curtain.

For someone who has sold art through a series of recessions and possessing sophisticated negotiating skills, I was ill-equipped to mediate with the salty wench at the desk who had no imagination. I quietly licked my wounds and carried the awkward spongy green costume to a corner. I sat there watching as the excitement in the room grew, feeling like a deflated hot-air balloon staring down at a cluster of foam gift boxes, mimicking presents that were to be wrapped around my ankles. The thick brown leggings I wore to slip into the princess outfit would now serve as branches exposing the decorated foam boxes.

Once my pity party was over, I went back to see if another woman was behind the desk to start the negotiations all over again but to no avail. The woman with the steely face and cranky attitude had my number, and I felt like a six-year-old standing there as we stared each other down while the embarrassing costume kept springing up like the neck on one of those large swan pool toys. Defeated, I went to the make-up station where two big red circles were drawn on my face while the notion of being a princess vaporized. I tottered off broken hearted. I was a Christmas tree. The kind that dogs like to pee on.

I climbed into the costume, pissed off and disappointed when a coordinator directed me to go down a hall where the other trees had gathered. I didn’t feel much like mingling with the rest of the forest. I quietly sat on a warm hall vent trying to look on the bright side realizing that I could fart and no one would ever know, then realized that was true of all the costumes, but the princesses could actually crap their pants, and no one would be the wiser.

The other trees were made up of older folks, some younger and three hip young guys who wanted me to rap some aggressive jackass line from a song they liked that was unrelated to Christmas. With a short fuse, I not only refused but lectured them about their civic Christmas duty to be the best damn tree they could be, and that “Merry Christmas” was the only thing we would wave and say. “No way lady,” was their response. With raging hormones, and in turbo bitch gear, they quickly succumbed to the fact that I was going to be the meanest timber in the forest and perhaps waving Merry Christmas was more appropriate.

Once the parade started, I became overwhelmed with emotion as I gazed out at all the children. They saw the magic in my costume that I had lost sight of and suddenly I felt like the Super Woman of Lumber, a female Popeye. I was the symbol of what brought family, gifts and merriment.

As I strutted my stuff, my husband and son showed up out of nowhere and photographed me while laughing uncontrollably. I couldn’t chase them because I would have transformed from a celebrated tree to an ugly character from a reality show.  A sarcastic smile had to suffice as I discretely flipped them the bird, which made sense being a tree. They stood in a crack in the crowd, hunched over while splitting a gut, tears of laughter running down their faces. The same hysterical amusement played out repeatedly en route with colleagues and friends who knew I was to be in the parade.

I smacked hands along the entire route while shouting “Merry Christmas” in a manner that the elves and Santa would have applauded. All was well until a tweenie came out of nowhere using choice words to describe how lame we all were. “Couldn’t be a clown loser?” he mocked. “Not a princess or a bear?” He replayed the entire repertoire of characters that ran through my head earlier that morning and brought me back to the rabbit hole.  When suddenly I felt like the Grinch and my crusty heart started to expand. I wondered whether our tormenter had ever had a tree or the joy of experiencing the celebration it serves at this time of the season. I smiled and told him if he could change his attitude he could make room for the magic of the season to come his way. Realizing at that moment, that is what I had done. His face wrinkled and angry, he gave me one last glaring look and vanished.

The end of the parade found us at the St. Lawrence Market. As we climbed out of our costumes, warming our cold hands while throwing back hot chocolate, the doors to the Christmas season officially opened. The fantasy and dreams of little kids who watched the parade were in full gear. The tweenie with the toilet mouth was a gift from the Universe. His presence served as my epiphany.

I was the ultimate symbol of family, friends and love.  Something that everyone, including the princesses and all the other characters, would gather around to count their blessings.  The Queen of Festive Timber – I was the beloved Christmas tree.