The Middle Finger and the Holiday Spirit

My recent encounter with the law

Rick Lewis archives - Sea to Sky Highway - British Columbia

I cautiously side-stepped my way down the mountain, trying to get back to where I was parked on the edge of the highway. I had already felt nervous about pulling over by the side of the road, scrambling up the cliffside in view of other motorists, and chopping down a tree on pristine government land.

Suddenly I heard the blast of a truck horn that almost caused me to lose my footing. I was dragging a prize eight-foot spruce tree behind me on one side while carrying a large blue handsaw in my other hand.

The driver of the truck had rolled down his window following the horn blast and was now giving me the finger out of his window.

My fears had been realized.

He thought I had brazenly desecrated the public forest to get myself a Christmas tree. In actuality, I’d obtained a permit from the forestry service—which encouraged citizen tree removal below the power lines running above. It was an open opportunity to bring home a gorgeous, fresh cut, heavenly-smelling evergreen tree for anyone who was willing to play mountain goat and Paul Bunyan at the same time.

But now I was rattled.

The judgment of others was exactly my concern, even though I knew I had followed the rules. I’d been thinking about the coming new year and how I could make an effort to enter it with intention, and the idea of cutting down a tree myself in the forest felt right in line with the holiday spirit. But all was not calm and bright in my heart at that moment.

I reached the bottom of the hill, dropped the tree, made for the car, and drove away. I couldn’t bear the thought of having other passing motorists watch me stuff a tree into my trunk and lean on their horns at me, thinking I was doing something illegal.

Ten minutes down the road I finally calmed down. The ordeal of navigating the busy highway, lumber-jacking on the side of a mountain, and being cursed by the truck driver had not been part of my holiday plan.

“This is ridiculous,” I thought to myself. “I’ve legally obtained a beautiful tree which is now going to wither and die by the side of the road instead of being enjoyed by my family.” That suddenly seemed worse than facing some dirty looks.

Turning around and tracing my way back along the highway I pulled over where I had left my abandoned tree and quickly slid it into the back of my van under the scrutiny of disapproving, rubber-necking motorists—feeling like the grinch who stole Christmas.

I headed back down the mountain into the city toward home.

Back in town, the full crush of holiday traffic had created grid-lock in every direction. The newly felled tree filled the car with the perfume of living spruce, but I still felt like a criminal. This has always been the case for me. I’m not innocent until proven guilty; I’m ridden with guilt the moment I’m accused of anything—whether I’ve actually done something wrong or not.

I inched the car forward toward the busy intersection. It took four green lights to reach the crosswalk, but I was stopped again at the red light—now the first car in line. I suddenly realized how famished I was after leaving the house early in the morning without breakfast. Fortunately, I grabbed an apple from the counter before leaving the house. I fished it out my coat pocket, my stomach grumbling appreciatively.

Looking to my left on the traffic median only a few feet away, I saw a man with a scraggly white beard and a soggy cardboard sign. He was pulling what looked like stale bread out of a paper bag, the hard white chunks half reaching his mouth and the rest falling into his beard or around his feet. A few gray pigeons dispatched the remaining crumbs. The faded letters of the sign looked like they’d been written with a blue crayon.

They read:

“Everything helps. Have a beautiful day. Call your mother and tell her you love her.”

I instantly felt the apple I’d snatched at the last minute was meant for him. I rolled down my window and held the piece of fruit out the window. He immediately stepped off the median, eagerly accepting the offer and said, “Thanks man!” with a vitality and brightness I didn’t expect.

He looked me in the eye, lucid and alert, conveying his gratitude with full presence. Returning to his station on the median he took a juicy bite.

“At least it’s healthy,” I called out the window, which felt like a stupid thing to say. But he didn’t miss a beat. He smiled, nodded, and said, “I’ve made a lot of friends here in seven years,” raising the apple to me in acknowledgement, as though I was one of those friends now. “And I’ve also been arrested seventeen times. By the same cop!”

I knew it was illegal to panhandle next to motorists, and now it dawned on me that he was technically breaking the law while wishing everyone a beautiful day. How many disapproving looks had he been the recipient of in seven years on that same traffic median? I had a different appreciation for the strength of spirit that would be required to bear that after my recent experience.

“Do you know who put a stop to it?” he continued with a twinkle in his eye, speaking of the arrests. He knew he had me, and paused for effect.

“The judge!” he said, with a big grin and a chuckle. “The last time they brought me in the judge looked at the cop and said, ‘If I see you come back here one more time with a homeless person you’ll be facing me in court!’”

The light turned green.

Part of me wanted to put my car in park, get out and stand on that traffic median to break stale bread with this man. I imagined traffic backing up, cars honking, the displeasure and judgment of others. What must it be like to have shed the conventional concerns of fitting in and be able to stand with dignity in the middle of the road without the need for anyone’s approval. He knew what laws were important to him and stood proudly in alignment with them.

I pulled forward and headed home.

Our shapely tree now stands in front of the living room window, bare of conventional glitter and shine, waiting for lights and ornaments. But it’s already decorated with the memory of my auspicious encounter.

Every time I look at it I see the uprightness of the man on the median, undimmed by the letter of the law—and I also imagine the judge who defended the spirit of the law, calling out a technically legal arrest as morally reprehensible in a municipal court.

Damn.

As it turns out, more holiday spirit than I could have hoped for came back with the tree. With respect to my new year’s intentions, the bar’s been set high—decide which laws are most important to me, stand by them with dignity and courage, and ignore those who are just trying to police everyone else into rote compliance instead of discovering what’s truly important for themselves.

What could be more important than that?

You might even argue that without such inner law and order, you’d be homeless.

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