The Christmas Tree

 

Once Thanksgiving came at my house I knew Christmas was right around the corner. I can still smell the school glue in the air from all the art projects we would do at Starpoint Elementary School. I made a paper cone Santa in Mrs. Dean's art class. Instead of pink flesh colored paper for the face, I used dark brown. That got me a lot of "that's nice" polite comments in our 1960’s not quite enlightened all white society. I didn't know I was treading on the status quo, I just thought the white beard and red in Santa's suit stood out nicely with a brown face.

 

The real business of Christmas began with the tree. I couldn’t wait until dad loaded us all up for the big hunt sometime this week or probably Saturday. Mom told dad we better get going or they would all be picked over. I hoped we would get a tall one. Maybe some of those lights would be burned out and I could be the hero. In those days, if one light went out, they all went out. It was like little kid gambling with no consequences. I was on top of the world if I could pick the right bulb on the first try.

 

The Wednesday after Thanksgiving my dad came home from work at 5PM and told us to get in the car because we needed to get a tree. He still had his white shirt, black tie and suit on from his day of work at Bell Aerospace. He used to take his shirt off each day and throw it on me when I was little so I could pretend I was him. I loved the way his shirt smelled.

 

We got in the Rambler station wagon and headed into Niagara Falls. We hadn't had dinner yet, but didn't care, we were so excited. My brother Glen was only 3, so he didn't really understand exactly what was happening only that it was a happy time.

 

Dad didn't explain much and we didn't ask much in those days. Pretty soon he pulled the car into this new place called McDonalds. It had a big lit up sign with a hamburger guy walking. In words at the bottom it said, "Over 100,000 sold." A mom or dad had to go up to the window and buy the food and then we ate it in the car. I got a hamburger (only 19 cents), French fries, and a strawberry milkshake that gave me brain freeze.

 

With full bellies we began the great hunt for the perfect Christmas tree. It was now dark and getting quite cold. Mom was the boss over what the right tree was. Dad would hold it up and she would look at it from different angles. Dad was allowed to say if a tree would fit in the house. That's where his advice ended. We looked at a lot of trees that first stop; none were quite the right one. We spent so much time outside that I hoped I wouldn't get frostbite like Admiral Byrd at the South Pole. Some of his guys' toes turned black and fell off! I wondered if I was getting frostbite. Glen didn't seem to feel the cold. Maybe snot running down your nose was a good insulator. He sure liked it left there because he got real upset when mom kept wiping it off with a Kleenex.

 

We went to the next place with fewer trees. You could see the needles on the ground from the ones that had found a good home. Mom and dad talked about spruce and pine and fir. I forget which ones hang on to their needles best. I just wanted to get one. They were all starting to look pretty good to me. We were going to cover the bare spots with decorations anyway.

 

We stopped at several more places. A couple had promising candidates. Mom said, “We will keep them in mind.” This one place was interesting. It was called Santa's Treeland. The sign was all lit up and decorated with painted candy canes and other Christmas stuff. The guy was dressed in a beat up Santa suit that looked like he had spent the day working in the coal mines. He had a Brooklyn Dodgers hat on and no beard, just brown stubble. This Christmas tree business must be tougher than I thought. He smoked these big fat White Owl Cigars just like my Grandpa Benwitz. Grandpa used to chew on the ends. When he would pull the masticated end out of his mouth to blow the smoke a big long string of spit would follow. This guy took his out of his mouth with a funny grip. As we pulled away he winked at me. I was shocked to notice that he was missing a thumb on his cigar hand. That really got me thinking which my dad said was dangerous. How did he lose his thumb? I suddenly had a lot of questions, but kept them to myself.

 

We drove around for a while slowing down at each finalist's stand until Mom said, "Let's go back to Santa's Treeland." I could almost hear my father's sigh of relief.

 

How did Santa lose his thumb? I wondered as I pretended to smoke my own White Owl without a thumb. “Keith, what are you doing back there?” mom asked. "I'm just fooling around," I said. Mom had this funny look on her face like I was a weirdo.

 

Dad turned left on Delaware and pulled into the Mobil gas station. They had the coolest red logo of a horse with wings. I’m not sure what Pegasus has to do with gas, but I always liked it. The guy came to the window in his blue Pegasus uniform. My dad said, “Fill er up.” The guy stuck the hose in and began cleaning our windows. He had a squeegee and rag. When he was done you couldn’t see any lines or smears. “6.50!” said the guy. Dad paid him with a ten and the guy made the change with that metal belt thing. Click click, 3 ones and we were on our way to see Santa.

 

We pulled up to Santa’s Treeland and there was Santa, cigar much shorter now. Santa played it real cool like he didn’t remember we were there less than an hour ago. He was eating a burrito, which he held like he was going to stab someone. He would take a big bite of burrito, chew up and down a couple of times, and then take a big draw off his cigar. I couldn’t believe he was missing both thumbs. I began to wonder if he was a pool shark like Paul Newman in the Hustler. Maybe they took him out back and whacked his thumbs off because he was too good. I was imagining what it might be like to play pool with no thumbs. It would be real hard to drink your whiskey or eat a sandwich. You would have to stick with round skinny food like pretzels, burritos or ding dongs. Maybe he used 2 hands on the glass. How does a guy lose both thumbs? He sure wasn’t grouchy or impatient with us. In fact he looked like a man who was satisfied and full of joy.

 

Mom got out and walked around some more, but I could tell she was getting tired. Dad must have noticed too because he suggested that she sit down and let him bring the trees over for a look see. Santa overheard and suggested that he would do the honors and present the trees. He said that he only had about 10 left.

 

Much to our surprise, Mom liked the first one Santa brought over to the car. I said it was kind of bare, but mom said that was so we could hang more ornaments and lights on it. Santa dutifully turned it around so she could be sure. He seemed to know who the boss was. She said yes! We were done! Dad easily threw it on top of the Rambler station wagon. Santa had some twine and quickly had the tree secured to the luggage rack. I was amazed at how easily he tied the knots without thumbs. Dad never offered to help even though he was the leading knot tying expert on the planet. I think he paid Santa too much, which made me feel good. As we drove away, Santa waved both thumbless hands and shouted Merry Christmas in a booming voice. I was sure I heard the Ho, Ho, Ho afterwards. Maybe I imagined it. I was too old to believe that stuff.

 

There was a warm feeling in the car as we drove back to Pendleton, but not much talking. I watched for the Country Cottage Restaurant on the corner of Beach Ridge Road, which meant only 2 miles to home.

 

When we arrived home, Dad called us over to the car; “Look at these knots. I’ve never seen one of these. It looks like a Christmas present bow.” Sure enough, each knot was perfect with 6 even loops. Dad hauled the tree into the house. He stood it up in the corner. Uh, oh it was too tall. Dad dragged it out back. He had a saw with him. We could hear the sawing noise combined with that kind of swearing only seasoned sailors use. We tried to keep straight faces when he came back in the house. Now that it was the right height (allowing for star clearance), dad said we had to put it in this old coal bucket with rocks to keep it straight. My job was to keep it watered so the tree wouldn’t dry out and burn the house down. Seemed like a lot of responsibility for a lad of my age. I took the job seriously though.

 

The days of waiting for Christmas morning went by slowly. Each morning and afternoon I would check the water level in the old bucket.  I had to crawl under the tree on my stomach like “Sarge” Vic Morrow of Combat when they sneaked under the barbed wire. I didn’t want to get shot by any Krauts. I began to notice roots on the third day. How could that be? Each day the tree looked a little greener. Dad said he never heard of a Christmas tree beginning to grow.

 

Christmas morning was great, I got the toy of my dreams, a Vac-U-Form plastic molding machine. It was a happy time of no school, playing, and the pungent aroma of melting plastic.

 

Meanwhile, the tree continued to thrive. There were new needles, and it seemed to be getting taller. Dad decided to plant it in the back yard. He waited for the January thaw when the ground was a little softer and planted it. He pounded stakes in the ground with wires to hold the tree straight. We all expected Santa’s miracle tree to die. It didn’t.

 

That tree continued to grow. It is now over 40’ tall. Thanks to Santa, my love for Christmas also continued to grow.