Stu used to put the lights on the tree.
At six-foot-three (to my five-foot-two) he was the obvious choice. I mean, what good was I? He’d be on the ladder and the best I could do to help was to keep his drink fresh and the music playing from the turntable.
I used to sort the ornaments into three types. There were the “crafty” ornaments, things made from yarn or with glued-on glitter from the kids or neighbors. There were the “legacy” ornaments, those handed down from Stu’s side of the family or mine with financial or emotional value such that we could never let them go. And then there were the “trendy” ornaments, items we’d acquired in more recent years that showed we were hip and up-with-the-times, which, of course, we weren’t, but at least it seemed that way to those outside our four walls.
I remember, when we first returned to Middle Valley and I was starting to scout work opportunities for myself, the piercing ring of the doorbell when Marjorie came by, snow globes of the homes on River Road in hand, in desperate need of a friend and some community and a warm blanket from which to chat.
Strange as that night was, it had been eye-opening to see a young woman, out in the world, pursuing her passion to write and report. Now I don’t love half of what she says in her dispatches, but you have to respect an independent woman for making such a contribution to the world. Because that’s exactly what it was, and is: A contribution.
She’d parked herself on the couch the entire night, sipping mulled wine and keeping me company more than anything. I remember Stu’s comment. “I think she is going to matter to you and what you’re going to be doing here, and it probably won’t matter to me.”
So, as we prepared the park, the embankment and the tree in Courthouse Square today, it seemed appropriate to have her on hand, placing ornaments on the tree, and taking social selfies as she did.
“Wanda,” she said to me through trembling lips. Seven inches of snow had fallen, and the winds were whipping from the river, up and down River Road. “I am so happy to be here and see this live and in person … this will be a celebration for the ages!”
I nodded. “Yes, Marjorie, it will … and I’ll be sure of it.” I couldn’t help but wonder where this would land in her next column. “So,” I asked as I placed a small rocking horse on one of the Courthouse tree’s sorta-dead, broken pine limb, “what do we have to look forward to in your next installment?”
“Well, your Miss Comportment is on the case!” she replied.
“And what case is that?” I asked.
“All of this Carson business … you know, we really must figure out who this man is!”
The interview with Susan had not gone well, she reminded me. To which I should reply “what do you expect, given the circumstances and that this woman from the West Coast is now in town?” But I held my tongue.
Turns out Marjorie, herself, had witnessed the post-interview fall-out herself, with this Trish person confronting Carson in the street.
“It was ugly,” Marjorie said, stirring and sipping from her hot chocolate. “Like the dress-down of a king.”
“Why? What’s the problem between them?” I asked with only half an interest. “Were they … together?”
“Oh I didn’t get any of that,” Marjorie said. “I think it has to do with money.”
A siren blared from the other side of the square as a firetruck sped across River Road and over the bridge.
“Oh dear,” Marjorie said, suddenly gathering herself. “I better get home and get ready for the event! I will be here with my camera and we will make this special, Wanda, I promise!”
“Sounds good,” I said, without thinking.
Money. Well, that’s interesting.