I’m stunned. “If you’ve been with Thomas and Mom all morning, then who did all this?”
May replies, “Mom said that Dad told her all about your visitor. Maybe ask him.”
I hang up the phone, more confused than ever.
Outside, I find Dad at the checkout kiosk, ringing up a long line of happy customers.
Grak, meanwhile, is single-handedly processing the fresh-cut trees. I watch in awe as he trims the bottom branches, uses the chainsaw to level the trunks, and puts the trees, one by one, into the freshly repaired machine that shakes off the needles. After that, they go through the netting machine—also somehow working now—and then Grak ties each one to the corresponding customer’s car roof racks.
Three employees could not do what Grak is doing, not at the speed at which he’s doing it.
I jump in to help.
As for the customers, they don’t seem the least bit fazed by Grak’s appearance.
While I’m helping him secure a huge tree onto a truck trailer, a family of four walks up.
“We love your Christmas Shrek!” exclaims the mom. “What a cute idea!”
Shrek?
I cover my mouth and stifle a laugh. They think Grak is dressed as a cartoon ogre.
“Can we take a picture with you?” the mom asks him.
She hands me her phone, and I snap the photo, with Grak standing behind the mom, dad, and two kids, all wearing matching ugly sweaters.
“Thank you so much. We always come to your place to get our tree and kick off the season as a family. It’s our yearly tradition,” the mom says.
“You all have knocked it out of the park this year,” adds the dad.
“Yeah, the sleigh ride was awesome!” says the little boy.
“I liked the jingle bells,” says the youngest, a girl about six.
Sleigh? No way that Grak got the sleigh up and running. There’s no way he could have done half of the things that I’m noticing now. Not in the time I left him alone.
“Don’t go yet,” Grak says to the family. “Give me the piece that I cut for you from the tree.”
A little confused, the dad hands him the small wooden slice from the trunk.
Grak smiles. “Wait here, please.”
“Grak? Where are you going?”
“His name is Grak? That’s so funny!” the mom says. “Well, I suppose you can’t call him Shrek because of trademark issues, right?”
“Uh, no. That’s his name. His real name.”
She tilts her head, confused, and I change the subject. We make small talk until Grak returns, holding the cut piece in his hand, having transformed it into an ornament.
“Here you go. This is yours to keep,” he says, handing it to the mom.
She covers her mouth and gasps. “Oh my goodness. John, look!”
Everyone nearby crowds around and looks at the wooden ornament, which has been burned with a woodburning tool to include the date, the family’s last name, and holly accents.
“This is very nice,” the dad says.
