Beech Tree News Network

Every year about this time, my family and I embark on what I’ve dubbed The Big Dig.  The annual dig refers to the extraction of all useless and unnecessary things that have accumulated during the previous year.  These things are sorted, given away, thrown out or burned, all to make room for more stuff that will likely fall into one of these categories next year during the dig—it’s the American way.   
    I am in charge of the dig—somebody has to do it—and I bustle through the house like a Dyson vacuum gone mad, picking up shoes and magazines, catching crumbs before they hit the floor and reaching under heavy furniture to retrieve puzzle pieces, flashlights and lost mail. 
    My family dreads this time of year.  The hope that Santa will reward their efforts in a few weeks is the only thing that pushes them on.  I tell them that a clean, well-organized house is its own reward, but these seasonal platitudes fall on deaf ears.  Still, there are sounds of delight that echo through the house when something that was lost is found—“My other boot!; I wondered what happened to that Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition; There’s my 101 Things To Do With A Cake Mix book.”
    My granddaughter, Sabria, joined the dig this year.  She decided she could part with Big Baby, but not with her stacking blocks or Naked Butt Dora (her name for her bathtub doll).  It’s wonderful to once again have a little one in the house at Christmas, especially one who has definite ideas about how things should be done.
    “I want a red Chrisam tree with red lights and a red star,” she told me, back at the first of the month.
    You ever tried to find a red Chrisam tree—or Christmas tree, for that matter?  A white tree and two cans of red spray paint later, and Sabria had her red tree.  My daughter, Natalie, helped her string the red lights and place the red star.  They put the tree in the small room where Sabria plays and watches TV.  The room looks like it’s on fire—you have to wear sunglasses to watch TV back there.
    Natalie and I made a trade-off on Saturday during the dig.  She put up the big tree in our living room while I did her laundry.  I know she hates to do laundry, but I got the better end of that deal.  I folded clothes, watched British mysteries and drank coffee while she argued with Sabria about which limb should go next and chased her around the living room when she took off with necessary parts of the tree.  It brought back memories of arguing with Natalie when she was small and opinionated, which made their bickering ever the more enjoyable—turn-about is fair play and all that.
    My husband, Garey, dug outside on the front porch, putting up the ladder, my bike and Sabria’s John Deere tractor and wagon.  Garey is a good sport about the annual cleaning frenzy; besides, he knows there will be peanut brittle in his near-future.  Last week, he even cleaned off the top of the chest where his change, receipts for farm stuff and small hardware collect.  When Garey cleans, he uses a five-gallon bucket as a trash can, which he periodically dumps into the big trash can in the kitchen.  He is also fond of using Red Man tobacco tins to store things that he doesn’t want to get rid of but can’t really find a justification for keeping, like extra glasses cases, fingernail clippers and fifty-eleven coupons for 25% off at Harbor Freight.
    I’ve thought about changing the dig from November to October of the year, but without the urgency of the holidays to spur everybody on, I’m not sure that would work.  I can’t see Halloween having the same effect; although, I do tend to be a witch during the dig, so maybe it would.