On a Saturday in December long ago, my dad and I drove into Winnipeg in search of a Christmas tree. The temperature hovered around minus thirty, and the wind, unimpeded from Hudson Bay, whipped through the Manitoba prairie.
Driving east on the Trans-Canada highway, I was hypnotized by the snow swirling across the highway, a natural Spirograph. The heater in my dad’s truck worked hard, on full blast for the duration of our journey. One of Dad’s chapped hands, the size of a mitt, gripped the steering wheel with ease, while his other hand tapped the beat of the Christmas tune on the country music station. He hummed.
He’d often hum at home on Saturday nights. He’d be leaning over the bathroom sink, face inches from the mirror, shaving, often for the second time that day. When Dad shaved twice, we knew he and mom were going out. When he hummed while he shaved, we knew he was looking forward to going out.
He kept humming on that drive into Winnipeg. When we reached the city, Dad looked at me and asked, “How about we try this lot?” He wasn’t looking for an answer, but included me anyway.
We pulled into the busy lot and left the truck running. We meandered through a makeshift forest of frozen Christmas trees, which were tied into two-dimensional shapes. I followed my dad through the maze, walking a few steps behind him, waiting for him to stop and shake the snow off a tree, inspect a bough, and walk on.
By this point, my eyelashes frosted white and stuck briefly together whenever I blinked. My scarf – pulled high above my nose – was crispy, frozen with the condensation of breath. As we walked, the snow squawked in protest. Dad shook a few trees, but unsatisfied, he headed back to the truck, ready to do this again in another parking lot.
By hour two, I grew impatient. I’d point to a tree and say, “How about this one, Dad? It looks good.”
His replies ranged. Sometimes the tree was “too expensive” or “too short”; other times, there was a “gap in the branches” or he’d explain that a “Manitoba Spruce sheds too much.” To me, a tree was a tree, but not to my dad. Somehow, he knew what he was looking for.
As hour three approached, I stayed in the truck, took my feet out of my boots, and put them on the dashboard vents in an attempt to thaw my toes. I changed the radio station, but switched it back before Dad returned.
My dad was a farmer on a quest. In searching for the right Christmas tree, he employed similar skills as to what he used to build a successful grain farm from nothing: hard work in spite of the conditions, careful consideration, attention to cost, and a relentless search for quality.
Eventually, he found what he was looking for. He motioned for me to come out of the truck, asked my opinion, and handed the cash over to a frozen attendant just as the sun sat on the western horizon, prematurely ending a short winter’s day. He carried the tree back to the truck and waited patiently as I struggled to open the tailgate with my thick mittens. He slid the tree in easily; it was lighter than a sack of grain, I supposed.
On the half hour drive back to the farm, he hummed again. Occasionally, though, he stopped and phrased a sentence, one that was nearly a question. “I think we got ourselves a good one.”
“We did,” I said, sharing credit that was not rightly mine.
We turned off the Trans Canada highway and drove the remaining three miles on gravel roads. Though it was not yet dinner hour, the stars were shining miles away from the city lights. The truck’s headlights led the way and reflected off the steel bins as we turned into our yard.
My dad unloaded the tree while I plugged in the truck. My mom opened the door and I rushed in to warmth. Secure in the house, I scraped the door’s frosted window and watched as Dad balanced the tree on the front step’s railings and sawed an inch off the trunk, searching for new life. I held the door open as he carried the tree into the entry.
“We have to let it warm up a bit,” he said. Mom got an empty ice cream pail and filled it with water. Dad placed the tree carefully and leaned it in a corner.
We stomped the snow off our boots, took them off, and hung up our coats. Our ears and cheeks reddened. Mom asked Dad if he wanted a drink, code for a rum and coke. By the time he said yes, the ice was out of the freezer and the jigger was on the counter.
We sat around the table as the aroma of roast warmed the house. My brother and sister – now too old for this Christmas tree shopping expedition –joined us at the table.
As he did every year, Dad told the story of the quest.
“I don’t know if the tree’s any good,” he said, preparing us for the worst.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” my mom said. “It always is.”
We reminisced about the great tree we had last year. And the one the year before, the one that had a single glaring bald spot, a flaw Dad disguised through careful rotation.
Sure enough, later that night, we set up the tree. Dad sat on the couch watching us untangle the lights, onto his second drink.
When the last piece of tinsel was placed, we turned off the lamps, plugged in the tree’s lights, and sat in a moment of breathless silence.
*
Any Christmas tree stories – or stories of dads – out there?
My Christmas tree tales involve Jo Stafford singing Christmas tunes and squinting at the fake tree branches of a tree older than I going, “is that brown or black?? Wait, could it be green?”
I actually just blogged about it last week. 🙂
Love that post. Here it is, for everyone’s enjoyment: http://danceswithchaos.wordpress.com/2011/11/28/i-am-a-christmas-light-addict-and-so-are-my-children/
Good one Leanne….I have tears in my eyes!!!
I remember one year that Dad had to drill a hole in the trunk of the tree and put a branch from the bottom in…looked A-1 after that.
Good memories!
Mom: I forgot about the drill. Let’s just rearrange nature for a couple weeks. Love it.
I grew up in Colorado, and often my Dad and I would go cut down our tree. One morning, we got up early, and packed our lunch. I made one sandwich, and my Dad said “Better make two. Walking through snow up in the mountains, searching for just the right tree is hard work. You’ll be hungry.” I was a teenager, and thought I knew best so I stuck with my one sandwich.
We took along our dog, Whiskers, because he loved the mountains as much as we did. He sat between us in the front seat of my Dad’s truck, ready for the adventure. Ha! After hours of trudging through the snow, looking at lots of trees that looked fine to me, we still hadn’t found one, and Whiskers and I were both tired and hungry.
We finally found a tree, and my Dad pronounced it lunch time. I ate my one sandwich and discovered I was still very hungry. My Dad said “I knew one sandwich wouldn’t be enough.” Then he pulled an extra sandwich out of his lunch bag and said “I made one for you just in case.”
What a fantastic story, Karen! Love your dad for that…
Great post, Leanne! Wow, it’s pretty cold up there. “Plug in the truck”?! That’s dang cold. In fact, your blog is snowing on my screen right now. How’d you manage that? And Karen, I loved your story, btw.
We never had a cut tree when I grew up – it was an artificial one. I don’t think my mom wanted the fuss and mess, although she claimed she was worried about my allergies (and I did have a lot of them, along with asthma, as a kid). But as soon as I was out on my own, I made sure my Christmas tree was a real one. And that’s what we’ve had every Christmas since. The kids are the best tree-picker-outers, and have a great time. I posted about the parallels between picking out/setting up a live tree and the writing process in a post last week, in fact.
So do you still have a cut tree every year? Do the kids help you “pick” it out?
Thanks, K.
To activate snow on WP.com blog, go to Dashboard>Settings>General. Then scroll down and click the box that says “add snow.” It’s fun.
We alternate real tree with artificial. We have a real tree on years when we stay in Calgary for the holidays.
And here’s a link to the post Kathy mentioned: http://kbowenmysteries.com/?p=1909. It’s worth checking out.
Ours was a classic, hip Mid-Century, Irish-Catholic family. Though I am not sure if Irish Catholics are allowed to be hip. Maybe that was my Father’s one rebellious action. He was wearing those awful, brightly colored, polyester Liesure suits in the 70’s, with bold, flowery rayon shirts…::shudder:: He worked for a major electronics firm, so we had the latest technology and gadgets in our home as soon as they hit the market…
I only remember my first 2 or 3 Christmases with an actual live, pine-smelling tree. After that, it was fake trees ever after. The best one was that skinny, silver aluminum tree. ‘Who would think to make an entire tree out of all aluminum foil?’ I remember wondering. The white-silver ‘needles’ were a spectacular method for showing off your colored Christmas lights, especially in the dark. After 8 or 10 years, that tree was retired, for a fake green tree.
My one act of christmas time rebellion? I’ve never owned a fake tree; only real live trees. Trees with sap that stick to your hands for 3 days after setting it up. Trees that smell like a cool walk in a pine forest, crunching through frozen, cottony snow…
I love that description! And I laughed at the aluminum tree.
A few weeks ago, someone wanted to send me a Christmas tree made out of cardboard to promote on my blog (and possibly giveaway). Umm…no thanks!
Awh that’s such a nice story. We watched national Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation on Friday night for the first time and the scene where they are in the middle of nowhere and he forgot the saw so he pulled the tree out by its roots was priceless!
Ha. It reminds me when my parents forgot to pack the axe for a camping trip…
Fabulous! One year the tree got dried out and my mom took off all the ornaments and lights so my dad could recut the bottom!
What a great memory. I don’t know if I would’ve had your mom’s patience though…
My dad was a tightwad. If he could have, he would have just saved the tree for the next year. We ended up with an artificial one that we used for years. Now that it is just the two of us, we have a small LED-encrusted tree that is only two feet tall. It’s the thought that counts – right?
I had a tiny tree for years too, Bill. When I lived overseas. The line about your dad contemplating keeping the tree cracked me up!
I am reminded how glad I am that I no longer live in a place where you have to plug in your vehicles!
Decorating the tree when it’s 80 out is a whole different kind of nostalgia.
Yes. Plugging in vehicles is an inconvenience, at best. Though the snow at Christmas time is rather picture perfect.
Growing up on a farm similar to Leanne, money was always tight and Dad was never happy about spending it on a tree that would die so it was always a bit tense at Christmas to see if/when Dad would give in. One year he didn’t. I must have been 15 or so and Dad decided we didn’t need a tree as it was too expensive and we weren’t little kids anymore. I was upset. So I got dressed and found a saw and headed outside in the dark on Christmas Eve. I cut down a poplar in the bush next to the house and brought it in and decorated it. No one said anything – well except my brother who insisted that we take it down the next day before company arrived for Christmas dinner. And there were real Christmas trees every year till long after I left home 🙂
A woman who votes with her feet. Love this story, Colleen. And though it doesn’t surprise me that you’d do this, I am impressed!
Beautiful story and great memories, Leanne! Spirograph was one of my favorite childhood toys.
Thanks, Kim. Spirographs were cool…though I’d get overzealous and keep doing it until the paper looked like scribbles. I’m afraid my personality was evident even then. Sigh.
Setting up the menorah is, of course, exhausting. My dad was really good at picking the leftover wax off for my mom. 😉
I think picking wax is rather pleasant. Does that make me odd? 🙂
That’s a really nice story. I love learning Canadian geography. Thirty below – I don’t think I’ve ever experienced temps that cold. In my home we had both Christmas tree and Hannukah menorah. We used to get real ones – trees, that is – when I was a child, and when I was older we switched to a fake tree that the cat would climb up and perch inside like a little leopard. One of the ornaments was a dreidel made of out construction paper and glitter.
Love the image of the cat and the dreidel in the tree! Thanks for the story, Mark.
Loved the story too. I’m a volunteer storyteller (Spellbinders.org), would it be ok if I used that story next year? I already have one “Grandfather’s Christmas Camp” by Marc McCutcheon that I’m going to tell the kids (3 grade 5 classes) this week. We had to plug in our cars in Montreal too when I was growing up, but not out here in balmy western Colorado, so that will be fun to explain to the kids.
One of the things I remember about Christmas trees was that after we got a dog we learned not to put any of the breakable ornaments on the bottom boughs where the wagging tail might knock them off. I still have some of the family ornaments and it always feels wonderful to pick them out of their boxes and hang them on the tree … taking me back to Montreal of the 60’s and 70’s.
Dad was a great maker of cocktails for the pre-dinner “drink”. And visiting them as an adult, I used to enjoy these one-of-a-kind mixes. I even remember a time when I, living 3 hours away, happened to call them just before dinner. Dad said “I’m making cocktails, I could pour you one if you’d like.” If only I’d lived closer I’d have been there in a heart-beat.
Janice, I’d be honoured if you used it next year. Thank you.
I smiled at the image of your dog’s tail knocking off ornaments…and your Dad inviting you for his special cocktail. Nice.
Thanks for sharing.
I love this, Leanne! My mom always insisted on blue spruce for our Christmas trees at home when I was small. Later, after we’d all moved out, she bought herself a big white artificial one!
Wendy
I can almost smell it!
This is a beautiful post! My mom and I took care of the tree every year growing up. My dad just did the drinking part. Now I take after them both and drunkenly put up our tree. 😉
You may be on to something: I think Christmas trees are the real reason alcohol sales soar this time of year.
I almost had to stop reading and grab a sweater when I got to the “thirty below” part (because after all, it’s in the sixties here in southern California and I chill easily!).
But I soldiered on in spite of the shiver because this was simply lovely. Every word.
We used to chop down our own trees when I was a child, too. Of course it was never snowing and we were on a designated “Live Tree” lot. But still, the memory of it endures.
As does the year we dressed up in my grandmother’s vintage dresses to decorate the tree. I’m not sure why we did it.
But the pictures of my sister and me hanging ornaments in my Nana’s too-long skirts from Mexico stick with me to this day. Even though I haven’t seen them in years.
Thanks for the memories; yours and mine.
Thanks, J. Means a lot coming from a wordsmith like yourself.
I love the image of you dressing up in your grandma’s vintage dresses. Beautiful.
This was wonderful. I thoroughly enjoyed it : )
Thanks so much, Ms. G!
Leanne,
This is a beautiful story. I’ve got tears in my eyes. Your language (at times lyrically simple and at times gorgeous) brought alive the cold and the winter world–and this moment with your father.
It’s wonderful. Thank you for sharing it with us.
rebecca
Rebecca,
Thank you for the kind words. I miss writing these pieces. Thank you for reading and taking the time to comment.
Leanne
I miss winter. What a great story.
You would have had a lot of winter in Montreal, I’m sure. Not so much in Van!
Okay, where to start. I don’t know how I missed this. You’re getting too prolific and I’m way behind on emails. Here are some of the things that I thought while reading this post. 1) You can write memoir/personal essay as good as you do humor. And that’s scary. 2) Since my brain has to make it about me, I wondered if people read my stories and feel like I felt when reading this. 3) You are going to sell a lot of books because of all the millions of people trying to tell stories, you have one of those rare voices that I find in a book every once in a while and am unable to stop thinking about. Or aboot. I forgot we were in Canada.
Regarding:
1) Wow. That means a lot coming from you.
2) Yes, yes we do feel that.
3) 🙂 We’re both going to sell books. You know it.
4) I can’t hear the difference between aboot and about. I’m not even sure which one I say. Ahh!
Beautiful blast from “Christmas Past”, Leanne!
Thanks, it was a fun one to write…
I have two great Christmas tree stories! We generally had real trees, and one year we bought one, got it all decorated, then the next day started finding beetles EVERYwhere… took a close look and the tree branches and trunk were completely covered with them! It was gross! We had to un-decorate the whole thing and take it outside and give it a good hosing down (fortunately we lived in Southern California!)
The other great memory was the year my older sister got the great idea to make an old fashioned, home made tree – we decorated it only in gingerbread cookies and stings of popcorn and cranberries. It looked pretty good – until the next morning. When we got up we discovered our dog had eaten every single thing off the tree as high as he could reach – and he was a big dog! He still had the string hanging out of his throat, sans popcorn and berries. And yeah, we had to pull foot after foot of that string out of his gullet….and that’s as nasty as it sounds!
I love it! This brings back many memories; too many stories to pick just one. What a great Christmas gift for your dad!