The Mayor, the Tree, and the Thermos of Doom
A small town in the upper middle of Ohio has a popular Christmas tree lighting ceremony every year. People drive trucks, cars and tractor from all around to see it. This year it went a little sideways. Here is an account from a local witness.
Every town has its traditions, and ours is no different. Every year, the entire community gathers downtown for the big Christmas tree lighting ceremony, where families sip cocoa, kids take their photo with a Santa whose beard may or may not stay attached, and carolers belt out their greatest hits like it’s a Grammy audition. And at the center of it all is the mayor, the master of ceremonies, ready to count us down to Christmas magic.
But this year, something felt…off.
The first sign was the mayor’s entrance. Normally, he strolls in with a modest wave, but this time he arrived in a golf cart wrapped in tinsel and Christmas lights, honking a horn that played “Jingle Bells” on repeat. He popped out wearing a Santa hat, but not just any Santa hat—this one had antlers, blinking LEDs, and a small speaker that inexplicably played snippets of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” every time he moved his head. A bold choice, even for Mayor Gladwell.
As the ceremony began, the mayor took the stage, clutching the microphone and a suspiciously festive thermos. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” he boomed, his voice just a notch too loud, “it is I, your beloved leader, here to bestow upon you the GREATEST TREE LIGHTING THIS TOWN HAS EVER SEEN!” The crowd cheered politely, though a few raised eyebrows suggested people were starting to put two and two together about the contents of that thermos.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” the mayor continued, leaning conspiratorially toward the mic stand. “‘Mayor Gladwell, how do you do it every year? How do you bring so much joy, so much holiday cheer?’ Well, my friends, it’s a little thing I call…” He paused for dramatic effect, “EGGNOG!” He held up the thermos like it was the Olympic torch, sloshing it around as if the crowd might burst into applause.
They did not.
Still undeterred, the mayor launched into what can only be described as the longest, most meandering Christmas speech in the history of our town. He veered from a heartfelt (if overly sentimental) reflection on the spirit of giving, to an unsolicited anecdote about his dog eating an entire fruitcake, to a bizarre attempt at stand-up comedy that involved a joke about reindeer with bad credit scores. Somewhere around the phrase “Santa’s sleigh repoed by the North Pole IRS,” the carolers began exchanging concerned glances.
But the real spectacle came during the countdown.
The tree stood tall and proud in the center of the square, adorned with ornaments lovingly crafted by local elementary school students and lights that promised to dazzle. All it needed was the mayor’s cue to illuminate. “Are you ready?” he bellowed, raising his arms like a victorious gladiator. The crowd cheered—not because they were ready, but because they desperately wanted this to end.
“Alright, here we go! SIXTY!”
There was a pause. People exchanged confused looks. Did he say sixty?
“FIFTY-NINE!” he shouted, with the enthusiasm of someone who truly believed this was the correct number to start a countdown.
“Oh no,” muttered Mrs. Winthrop, who’s been to every tree lighting since 1973. “He’s doing the full minute.”
And so it began.
“FIFTY-EIGHT! FIFTY-SEVEN! FIFTY-SIX!” The mayor was clearly having the time of his life. The crowd, not so much. Kids started whining, parents checked their watches, and the carolers began harmonizing just to drown out the sound.
By the time he hit forty-five, a group of teenagers had started a game of hacky sack near the cider stand. At thirty, someone tried to start a chant of “Light the tree! Light the tree!” but it fizzled out when the mayor shushed them.
“TWENTY-NINE! TWENTY-EIGHT!” he roared, now pacing the stage like a deranged game show host. His Santa hat had started to slip sideways, and there was a distinct wobble in his step. “We’re almost there, people! Hang on to your mistletoe!”
By the time he reached single digits, the crowd had gone through all five stages of grief. Denial (“This can’t be happening”), anger (“Who let him drink that much eggnog?”), bargaining (“Can we just skip to five?”), depression (“We’ll never see those lights”), and finally acceptance (“At least it’s a story to tell”).
Finally—mercifully—he shouted, “THREE! TWO! ONE!” and slammed his hand onto the ceremonial switch. The tree burst to life in a dazzling display of multicolored lights, drawing oohs and aahs from the crowd. For a brief, magical moment, all was forgiven.
And then the power went out.
Turns out, the tree’s light display was so elaborate it blew a fuse, plunging the entire downtown into darkness. The mayor’s voice cut through the chaos: “Don’t worry, folks! I’ll fix this faster than you can say ‘Ho ho ho!’” Moments later, he tripped over a wire and fell into the hot cocoa stand.
As we all stumbled through the dark, sipping lukewarm cocoa and laughing at the absurdity of it all, one thing was clear: this was a Christmas tree lighting no one would ever forget. And for better or worse, Mayor Gladwell was the gift that kept on giving.
The Johnson brothers gave the mayor a ride home.
