Only in the country; A tree, Diane Wiest and a gun

RAMONA JAN
Posted 8/21/12

I moved to New York City in the fall of 1975. My first apartment (on West 85th Street between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue) cost a whopping $165 a month. It was a studio apartment with a …

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Only in the country; A tree, Diane Wiest and a gun

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I moved to New York City in the fall of 1975. My first apartment (on West 85th Street between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue) cost a whopping $165 a month. It was a studio apartment with a bathtub in the kitchen and a toilet in what once was a closet. Speaking of closets, there were none. As a full-time foot messenger for Media Sound Recording Studio, (after taxes) I cleared precisely $88 a week. Two weeks’ salary paid the rent. The leftover money went to food and an occasional Woody Allen movie. I certainly couldn’t afford a Christmas tree.

My rent doubled when I moved down the street into something called a “one bedroom”—a larger studio with a wall right down the middle. I should never have listened to that boyfriend who whispered in my ear, “Take it!” Cheap as that place was by today’s standards, my salary of assistant recording engineer (I had by then been promoted) was still not commensurate with the rent. I was forced to take in a roommate. From then on, I slept in my living room behind a makeshift folding screen. The roommate got the bedroom.

Each December, on Columbus Avenue alongside the Museum of Natural History, Christmas trees were sold. I’d make a point to weave amongst them just to sniff their sweet fragrance. The actress Diane Wiest (“Hannah and Her Sisters”) was always there buying the best of trees. She’d smile and nod at me, and I pretended to know her, as I perused what I couldn’t afford—one measly tree. I dreamed that one day my “best friend” Wiest would treat me to a nice fluffy tree, but that never happened.

Roommates moved in and out and finally out for good. I left my promising career as recording engineer and joined a punk rock band. For the love of rock ‘n roll, I ventured onward, scraping together a meager living from scads of odd jobs along the way. At each passing yuletide season, I found myself walking head down on the other side of the street glancing at trees and Wiest from afar.

One winter, lo and behold or hark the herald angels sing or whatever, there was a perfect and most stunning tree lying on its side right in front of my apartment building. It was a blue spruce, my favorite. I looked to the left and then to the right. No one was there—not even Wiest—so I dragged it up five flights of stairs and into my one bedroom. Like a new roommate it took up more than half the apartment. Still, I was thrilled to have a tree.

I decorated said tree with ornaments I’d saved in shoeboxes as I subsequently moved from apartment to apartment. I splurged on a few strands of mini-white lights but couldn’t afford the tinsel. When I finally turned on the fairy lights, I just stood there and stared. I was so happy! And then I heard a mysterious munching sound. Thinking it might be the twinkling bulbs, I quickly unplugged the tree but the munching was still there.

Apparently, the tree was infested with cockroaches.

I kept the tree for a couple of days, convincing myself that maybe all the roaches I already lived with just wanted to check it out. I even thought it could serve as a roach magnet instead of my kitchen counters. However, after a few more days of creepy crunchy sounds, I tore off the trimmings, dragged the tree by its stem through the hallways, down the stairs and out onto the side of the road. An hour later, it was gone.

I live in the country now where, with permission, one can cut down a free tree from a neighbor’s yard. In my small home, even a large tree has room enough to walk around. Lots of presents fit underneath a fat spruce—even the ones that Santa leaves by mistake (like a five-foot gun). At night, with the Christmas lights lit, there are no munching sounds, and the tree always looks stunning.

Some say “only in New York,” but I say “only in the country.” For, lo and behold, hark the herald angels sing or whatever, my actor neighbor is close friends with Diane Wiest! There’s a very good chance that someday she will finally get to see my tree.

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