O Tannenbaum

For me, the holidays are times for creating happy memories, maintaining family traditions, and gathering loved ones around the hearth and table, often sharing good food, music, and exchanging special gifts. Since we've settled into Cleveland Place, I've enjoyed decking the halls – stringing up delicate heirloom Christmas ornaments, arranging centerpieces for the big meals, and setting candles on the windowsills to create a warm welcoming light for visitors or passersby.  Nearly every bedizening ornament has some kind of sentiment, keepsake value, or story.  I treat each one with care, and when I’m standing high on a ladder to reach the eaves to hang one, I think of the person or event that connects it to our family tree.

Sadly, this year starts with the loss of a family member by a fall from a ladder.  Given the time of year, I assume she was taking down her own special holiday decorations. She too may have been remembering loved ones, happy times, and special people.  I’d like to think she was full of happy thoughts of her own extended family; but now a sadly broken branch on a family tree.

For many years, our growing family lived far away from our origins, so we created some new traditions. If you’ve read in other blog entries about our Solstice events and not-so-traditional American Thanksgiving, then you know that gathering, eating, and laughing are integral elements to me for a successful get-together no matter the occasion.

A particular Christmastime in Alma Village with a group of friends and family remains a vivid memory of happy chaos.  It started out as a casual gathering for dinner, holiday glühwein, and some festive merrymaking with friends and family, featuring (among others):

• Wolfgang:  While vacationing from his home country of Germany to the Fundy area, Wolfie fell in love with our small fishing village and its rural lifestyle, and soon after moved to Alma.  Retired as concertmaster from the German Army, he sought out fellow musicians in our small community and quickly found a circle of friends who, like him, were “from away.”  He became acquainted with my dad, Wallace (alone after my mother's sudden and unexpected death after almost fifty years together), who welcomed the distraction of friends and activities to keep him busy.  When at Cleveland Place, Wolfgang would sit at our parlor grand piano and practice his exercises, running complicated scales up and down the antique keyboard.  The piano, made in Berlin many years ago, has a rich bass and beautiful tone.  A true musician, Wolfie enjoyed playing it to its full capacity.  After thirty minutes of warm-up, he would stand, stretch (a large, tall, imposing man), prop up the piano’s lid, and then really play music.  We’d open our front door facing Main Street, and as summertime tourists strolled the village streets, they'd slow down or stop to listen, and admire the grand music flowing from our home. 

• Kirstin:  Our hostess at this gathering and long-time true family friend. Originally from Germany, she relocated in Alma via Ontario many years ago.  Amber Brook, her B&B, was Wolfgang's respite “weir spreken deutch” when he was touring the Fundy area.  Fluently bilingual, she also helped Wolfie adjust to the provincial and village culture. A leader in every capacity, Kirstin is assertive but friendly, often taking firm but polite command of situations.

• Linda:  Kirstin's housemate, and another good family friend.  A retired librarian, Linda is mild-mannered, soft spoken, well-read, and unfailingly gracious as co-hostess, keeping conversation flowing with her extensive knowledge of current topics and historical or literary references.

•  Gerry:  Readers of The Jugular Vein blog have already met Gerry, a talented musician and friend, in “Share it If You Got It.”  Always eager for the company of friends and holiday socializing, Gerry rarely missed an invitation to share food, song, or companionship. He lived alone in a remote farmhouse outside the village limits, where unrelenting Fundy fog often compounded loneliness.  An expert jack of all trades, Gerry always made do for entertainment, fun, and practicality, and – like my mother – wore Dollarama brand readers to save the expense of optometrist and prescription glasses.

•  Dad (Wallace): Happy to have someone else hosting the evening, and keen to relax with the company of friends, he always enjoys a gathering. Usually an active participant or initiator of an evening’s entertainment, Dad was more an observer on this night.

After we finished our meal, the lively conversation around the table quieted as the dishes were cleared away and the cleanup began.  Since it was the holidays, someone suggested we sing traditional Christmas carols.  Regrettably, Gerry didn't have his guitar and there were no musical instruments at Kirstin's house – except for one.

A small children's electronic keyboard toy with one octave of keys, and dead batteries.  Kirstin quickly found and installed new batteries while we half-heartedly hummed and vaguely tried to recall lyrics from familiar carols.  Once the keyboard had power, Wolfgang stood and suddenly took command of the toy, running his large fingers over the keys to assess the sound.  One key wasn't working, which sorely disappointed him.  I was highly amused at the sight of this respected conductor’s serious efforts to generate music from a cheap toy, dwarfed by his big hands that were more accustomed to producing grand classical works from our parlour.

Gerry reached up and took it from him, and used a small pocket knife to unscrew the back and reveal the electronic chips and connectors.  He found a loose component and tried to bend it back into place, but it snapped and completely lost its connection. Kirstin, who’d been hovering over his shoulder, gave a “tsk!” at the realization that Gerry had ruined the evening's opportunity for music.  

Undaunted, Gerry took out his second pair of Dollarama readers, and put them on over the first pair he was already wearing. He exclaimed, “Well, now I can see the problem!” and asked Kirstin to get a soldering iron.  

Impatient to begin the music, Wolfgang stood up and raised is arms in full orchestra conductor mode, commanding attention by announcing in his strong German accent, “I vill make ze tone!” and started humming a mid-scale note for us all to follow.

I looked at Dad who sat back in his chair with a contented smile, enjoying the scenario as Kirstin repeatedly spanked Gerry's hand away from the electronics to prevent him from causing any more damage.  With each spank Gerry shrank back and resumed fiddling with the parts, both reassuring and teasing Kirstin that he could repair it.  The scene would have been the same had they been 10 and 12 year old brother and sister competing for the fix.

Kirstin eventually came up with a wood burning tool, and plugged it in. Gerry, wearing his two pairs of glasses, bent over the small panel to melt and fuse the broken connection, while Wolfie tried to organize a small chorus of dinner guests to give a rousing rendition of the German-English favourite “O Christmas Tree.” 

Though distracted by Kirstin and Gerry's activities at the head of the table, Linda, Dad, a few other guests and I vainly tried to attend to Wolfgang's directions, as he sternly insisted we follow his lead.  But with the noise of Linda clearing the dinner dishes, the smell of melting plastic and metal from the soldering project, the increasing tempo of the scolding/slapping/teasing between Gerry and Kirstin, and Wolfgang’s voice rising over all, demanding the attention and performance of reluctant carolers, repeating sternly, “Listen!  Follow! I vill make ze tone!” the scene was one of complete and uproarious chaos. When Gerry finally presented the repaired toy to a relieved Wolfgang, we managed a warbled rendition of “O Christmas Tree” in English and German. But when he found the formerly silent key now made a low crackling buzz instead, he set it down again with disgust, to our great amusement.

By now dessert was ready, and we'd fulfilled the promise of music, the camaraderie of an evening, a memorable holiday celebration.  Though I have no delicate ornament to serve as a memento of that evening, I have a genuinely happy memory of friends who have become family; extensions of my small family tree. 

How lovely are thy branches.

Behind closed doors.

Paul started it.

He told another story about his dad, Dwight, to illustrate his dad's subtle humor. There's no laugh-out-loud,  knee-slapping, guffawing, corn-ball humor with the Hoff family.  It's a quieter, laying-in-wait, tap you on your shoulder when your back is turned, get you when you least expect it sort of amusement.  Once you've fallen victim, you'll know, but you don't shout it to the world, and-- unlike our family-- they don't ridicule, point, and laugh once you've fallen prey.

Paul told us about the time Dwight filled his bathroom medicine cabinet with marbles.  This kind of humor takes patience for the reward of a laugh; an unknown victim would eventually be revealed.

I found this highly amusing, and couldn't wait to implement it.  We got to work; Stephen drilled a hole in the top of the middle section of our three paneled wall mounted medicine cabinet, and we poured about 30 marbles into the closed cabinet from the top.  Testing it, we had one of the kids open the cabinet door but to our disappointment nothing happened.  There weren't enough marbles filling the space to cause a cascade and the few marbles that were sitting on the shelf sat like beady little eyes watching the reaction of our failure.  Dejected, we knocked at a few of them and down they rained into the porcelain sink below.

The racket it created was loud, jarring and dangerous!  Several marbles broke sending slivers of glass shards all over the tiled counter-top.  This was not working, and clearly wouldn't have a fun outcome if the hail of marbles came down on someone's head, or worse, sent broken glass into someone's eye.

We re-evaluated the process, and considered other options:

ping-pong balls?  Too big.
Super Balls?  Too big, too bouncy.
Cotton Balls?  Too soft, no surprise element.
 
We decided that gumballs would be just as colorful as glass marbles, equally surprising, and far less dangerous.  Our intended victim was the nosy Parker house guest who secretly opens the medicine cabinet to see what family secrets are revealed from the pill bottle labels and unguents.  We've all had one or been one.

Off to the candy store.  We purchased three bags of 50 gumballs, installed them in the cabinet, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Over the months, with the cabinet prepared and full, we had several house guests and two Solstice parties with well over 20 guests and no one ever opened the cabinet.  How 'bout that?  We determined that this was actually a test of character of the company we keep.

A.  Do you open the cabinet?
B.  What do you do if you're caught opening the cabinet by unleashing a hail-storm of gumballs?

It wasn't until several years later when we learned how some people handle it.

After my mother died, our family started running the Bed and Breakfast my folks had been operating together for nearly 20 years.  Early in the B&B season we had friends of my folks stay with us who'd been visiting Cleveland Place and The Bay of Fundy for years.  We were pretty well acquainted, and thought that they would be good subjects for the Gumball Prank and set up the medicine cabinet in the guest bathroom with 300 hundred brightly colored balls.

This was no easy task.  Cleveland Place is nearly 100 years old, and the oak medicine cabinet is built into the lath and plaster bathroom wall making it impossible to drill any holes.  We had to form a sort of false cardboard door to funnel the gumballs in, close the real door, and then slide the cardboard out from underneath.  After several failed attempts, and chasing countless escaped balls, we eventually got them all in.  We welcomed our guests, Dan and Betsy, and invited them to make themselves comfortable in room #2 and enjoy their full private bath just a few steps down the hall.

For me, there's a bit of an ethical puzzle to this gag.  If I was a family-friend guest in a home that is run as a professional lodging establishment and I saw the little door in the wall with the wee brass plate above the latch that read private please, I probably wouldn't open the door, assuming it was for the supplies or operations of the facility.

However, if I was a paying lodger and unfamiliar with the hosts I'd be concerned with what might be behind the mirrored cabinet that faces directly in front of the bathtub.  After all, I've seen the 20/20 episodes on television that exposes creeps who use small video cameras watching the innocent  in their most private moments. So, I'd probably peek inside the door to confirm that it simply contains travel sized shampoos and cotton swabs.

To their credit, neither Dan or Betsy ever opened the cabinet door.  Over the years, we've become good friends and they've returned to Cleveland Place several times and have been our hosts at their home in Massachusetts.  We eventually revealed the test that they unknowingly passed and they have since fallen victim to the gag in their own home.  For a simpler version we used a cardboard Morton Salt container that was emptied of salt, the bottom cut out, filled with gumballs and secretly stashed in the kitchen cupboard when their backs were turned.  Eventually, when it was time to fill the salt shaker, the prank was exposed. 

As the busy B&B season came in full swing, we left the medicine cabinet as is, and actually forgot about its contents.  Unfortunately, we were reminded very late one night after checking in guests.  Kathryn and I were sitting in the den downstairs and heard the tell tale rattle of 300 hundred gumballs raining down on the wooden floor above our heads.  Alarmed and startled at first, then quickly realizing the scene above, Kathryn and I were forced to leave the house as we were convulsed with laughter imagining the dazed guest, fresh from her bath, standing wrapped in her white Cleveland Place terry-cloth bathrobe in a pool of bright, shiny, primary- colored confectioneries.

The next morning at breakfast, nothing was mentioned by the guests (or by us) about the incident.  When they'd left for the day, I went to the bathroom to refresh towels, swab the toilet, and assume the daily duties of running a B&B, and found several of the gumballs stashed about--a few in a basket, others in a soap dish, some that rolled to far corners.  Most remained in the cabinet (though I'm curious how she got them back in the cabinet since several were crushed flat apparently from her shutting the door on them).  The couple stayed 5 days.  No one ever said a word about it.  Was she embarrassed?  Annoyed?  Amused?  We'll never know.  I was tempted to use a few gumballs as garnish on their pancakes one morning to make mention, but chose to let it be.  I wonder if they kept a few as a souvenir.  So:

A. She opened posted private cabinet door.
B. She never said a word about it.

Odd?  I think so.  Curious, most definitely.  But more, I wonder if she's told on herself.

Over the years, Dwight's little prank has made quite a few rounds in Alma village-- Cleveland Place has even fallen reverse victim to it on several occasions--but our rule is, you can't gumball someone until you have been gumballed, and like Dwight, you never let on that it was you who you set up the prank.

Patience.  All it takes is patience.