I hunted down a good Frazier fir, hauled it home, wired it, tinseled it, balled it, and put the star on top. But one day, Brenda came home early and caught me out in the front yard, holding an 8-foot tree over my head and aiming to plunge its trunk into the center of the tree stand, like a stake into the heart of a vampire. Lay the tree over on its side and hammer the stand on sideways. She threw off her coat and did the whole operation in two minutes, then waltzed the tree inside the house while I held the door. Then and there, as I watched Brenda with the tree, I understood that putting up a Christmas tree is a lot like dancing.
Women are naturally good at it, and they're eager to do it.
We men dance only to please our women. It's a duty, like bearing arms in wartime. If we can duck the job honorably, well, that's just fine with us. That year, Brenda took over all tree duties except stringing the lights and getting rid of the tree. I was in charge of the lights because I wanted to inspect the wires inch by inch before they went on the tree.