Short Story: My Christmas
When I was growing up, my sisters and I would constantly argue with our father about the size of the Christmas tree he wanted to buy. His choice was always a scrawny little tree. Our arguing was always friendly and I sometimes wonder if my father wasn't just trying to get us worked up before settling on "our" tree.
Growing up in South Florida and not having any real change in temperature or a flake of snow or even have leaves fall off trees, the Christmas tree became our focal point of the holidays. It did not seem much like Christmas outside and there wouldn't be any logs (or even a fireplace) inside, but there would be our tree.
Decorating our Christmas tree was a ritual. Carefully stringing lights to make sure the blinkers were not all in one place. Unscrewing and replacing bulbs with others of a different color to be sure there weren't two blues or two reds too close together. Hanging the largest ornaments near the bottom and working toward the top with smaller and smaller ones. Making sure the treetop angel could be seen from our front door as well as through the dining room to the back door. And, of course, each strand of tinsel had to be delicately draped individually—never two or three at a time.
And so, what was when I grew up became the same when I had my own family. The tradition continued to always find the perfect and sometimes-even-too-big tree. My wife reminded me of my father at times, saying "It's too big, we'll never get it through the front door," or using the one argument that never worked with me: "It costs too much."
My life changed with divorce and the loss of my parents, followed by a move to the north end of the Deep South. Once there I found myself knee deep in leaves and ankle deep in snow. However, my penchant for the perfect oversized tree never left me.
Until Christmas of 2009.
Just after Thanksgiving Day I settled on the notion that I would move back to South Florida. After being away for almost six years, I longed for saltwater, sailing, fishing and friends. And, I rationalized, my two older sons were now at the age where their independence was important and my youngest of three would enjoy visiting me in a warmer climate with lots of outdoor activities around. So, I proceeded to list my home and make the arrangements necessary for the move.
My youngest son was going to visit for the holidays, but not until two days after Christmas. I was now packing for a January move due to a quick sale of my house. I would bunk in a spare bedroom at my sister’s house in Ft. Lauderdale from where I could shop for a home. With boxes beginning to stack up, I rationalized that I could do without a Christmas tree. "Concentrate on the move, look ahead," etc., "and besides, James won't miss having a tree because he will have already celebrated Christmas with his mother."
The days leading up to Christmas were unexpectedly tough, though. I'd drive to the store or to a church meeting and my eyes would always go to a nearby car with the trunk up and a tree trailing out. Or, I'd pass one of the tree lots and see families walking through the instant forest of standing trees, looking as I once did for the perfect one.
But, I was not to be swayed. Fortified seeing 40-plus big boxes packed, I reminded myself that it just seemed silly to go to all the tree and decorating trouble when there was no one to share it with. I tried to strengthen my resolve by visualizing the hassle of getting it straight, fighting with strands of lights that wouldn't work, and untangling those hangers for the ornaments that somehow always hook themselves into a huge knot…not to mention all the mess with needles all over the place.
On Christmas Eve I received calls from friends far and near. When asked what I was doing for Christmas, I told each, in one way or another, that it would be a quiet one: "I'm fine. I've got some packing to do. Watch a little TV. Some football. No problem." As friends, they were concerned about me being alone. Some said "Get in the car and come on over," or "We've got a house full, but we've always got room for one more," and so on. They were gracious but in the end were convinced that I was okay and looking forward to my son coming to visit.
But, I didn't realize just how empty it did feel to be alone at Christmas for the first time. Married with kids in tow, or later dating someone, or having one or more of the boys with me, there was always some place to go, some relative or friend to see, and some kind of built-in holiday overdrive to keep going. As much as it seemed right to take it easy and back away from it all for once, it also seemed somehow hollow and unnatural.
Later that day I was beginning to wane a bit from my firm stance. So, as a compromise with myself, I decided to go to the grocery store and buy a big ham with all the trimmings just as I remembered from my childhood. Thoughts of the great aromas coming from my mother's kitchen and the anticipation of a huge Christmas Eve dinner were on my mind, with plenty of leftovers left out on the table for evening snacks. I was now set on a course that would change Christmas more than I could have imagined.
On my way to the store I passed one of the tree lots I had seen in days past, once packed with what seemed to be more trees than could possibly ever be sold. But it was completely empty and abandoned. One thought was, "Well, at least none of them went to waste." Another was, "Even if I wanted a tree, they're all gone now." Satisfied that hurdle was over, I drove on.
But, instead of going to my usual store I decided to go to one I had only been to once before, a little farther away in a small country town. I thought the extra drive would be good, to clear my mind of all thoughts of a tree and help make time go by a little faster. I remembered the store being one of those that seemed to cater to the local folks, and that it had some special regional products that the larger stores didn't carry.
While shopping for a ham, I realized I knew nothing about hams. Luckily there were two matronly ladies who reminded me of my mother doing the same thing as me: Lifting and rolling hams around like small boulders in a rock quarry, checking for—well, I wasn’t quite sure what they were checking for. I was just trying to look as knowledgeable as they, while searching for a ham that was not for a family of five plus the in-laws, neighbors, friends and days and days of additional creative meals. It didn’t take long for them to notice that I didn't know what I was doing and courteously helped me on my way with a small "shoulder" ham that would, as they nodded happily, guaranteed to be perfect.
Feeling satisfied with my bundles, I was off. I would soon be savoring the aroma from my little—comparatively speaking—ham throughout the bareness of my little home. I looked forward to the yams and other goodies I had selected for a great Christmas Eve dinner with plenty left over for the big day, and for James and I to share when he arrived.
After loading the car, feeling no rush to get home, I changed course again heading home. I chose some back roads through the local neighborhoods of small post-WWII homes, which I was sure would connect me at some point to the main road I would need to get home.
As I slowly traveled from one stop sign to the next, cautiously placed at most intersections I came to, I saw something that struck me as strange. Here it was Christmas Eve and someone had already thrown out their Christmas Tree! It lay in a small grassy area adjacent to a cracked and tree root tilted sidewalk. I drove past slowly, looking at it to my right like I was watching a fallen child, waiting for her to get up and say "I'm OK" and, silly as it sounds, wave to me. As I passed, I looked in my rearview mirror and watched as the tree diminished. I prepared for my next stop sign and the turn I’d have to make there or somewhere farther along to reach the main road.
I stopped there for longer than I had to. Looking left, right, and left again, then repeating the stall tactic, I thought, "What a terrible way for such a pretty little tree to have to spend Christmas Eve. And Christmas Day! It'd still be there when the children would be wobbling past on shiny grow-into bicycles on Christmas morning. It'd lay there and be wind brushed by passing cars on their way to visit friends and or family and still be there to welcome them home again. It didn't seem fair. Then I began to reason that the offending family must have left for an extended trip and decided to discard it now. Or…maybe there was some other good reasoning that my mind just couldn’t seem to wrap itself around.
I continued down the street after stopping at the sign trying my best to put aside those thoughts and stay focused on my impending feast. I tried to focus all my fading plans about a quiet Christmas without the mess and bother of lights, ornaments, etc. But, like other changes in plans that day, I turned right at my next chance to do so, instead of left which likely would have connected me to the straight-shot road home. I was now on the way to save my little tree. And I knew it. There would not be any hesitation or another change of direction. I was not resigned to it, rather, like a child, I was excited by the thought of it.
When I came upon it again, I felt it was looking up at me. Smiling. Its branches twitching, waiting like an excited puppy to be held and loved.
I reached down and picked its meager weight off the damp ground and stood it erect. I gave it a tousled shake and watched as each row of frail branches opened like a flower.
That evening, with dinner in the oven and Christmas carols playing from my laptop, my little Christmas Tree was brightening the night as each string of lights were strategically placed, each ornament located best for size and color, and each strand of tinsel hung just so, individually of course. With all other lights off in the house, it stood proudly and shown like a beacon, soaring upward higher than any tree I'd ever known. I thanked God for my little Christmas Tree.
It was saying "I knew you'd come around," and all I could muster as a response was, "Sorry it took me so long."
Growing up in South Florida and not having any real change in temperature or a flake of snow or even have leaves fall off trees, the Christmas tree became our focal point of the holidays. It did not seem much like Christmas outside and there wouldn't be any logs (or even a fireplace) inside, but there would be our tree.
Decorating our Christmas tree was a ritual. Carefully stringing lights to make sure the blinkers were not all in one place. Unscrewing and replacing bulbs with others of a different color to be sure there weren't two blues or two reds too close together. Hanging the largest ornaments near the bottom and working toward the top with smaller and smaller ones. Making sure the treetop angel could be seen from our front door as well as through the dining room to the back door. And, of course, each strand of tinsel had to be delicately draped individually—never two or three at a time.
And so, what was when I grew up became the same when I had my own family. The tradition continued to always find the perfect and sometimes-even-too-big tree. My wife reminded me of my father at times, saying "It's too big, we'll never get it through the front door," or using the one argument that never worked with me: "It costs too much."
My life changed with divorce and the loss of my parents, followed by a move to the north end of the Deep South. Once there I found myself knee deep in leaves and ankle deep in snow. However, my penchant for the perfect oversized tree never left me.
Until Christmas of 2009.
Just after Thanksgiving Day I settled on the notion that I would move back to South Florida. After being away for almost six years, I longed for saltwater, sailing, fishing and friends. And, I rationalized, my two older sons were now at the age where their independence was important and my youngest of three would enjoy visiting me in a warmer climate with lots of outdoor activities around. So, I proceeded to list my home and make the arrangements necessary for the move.
My youngest son was going to visit for the holidays, but not until two days after Christmas. I was now packing for a January move due to a quick sale of my house. I would bunk in a spare bedroom at my sister’s house in Ft. Lauderdale from where I could shop for a home. With boxes beginning to stack up, I rationalized that I could do without a Christmas tree. "Concentrate on the move, look ahead," etc., "and besides, James won't miss having a tree because he will have already celebrated Christmas with his mother."
The days leading up to Christmas were unexpectedly tough, though. I'd drive to the store or to a church meeting and my eyes would always go to a nearby car with the trunk up and a tree trailing out. Or, I'd pass one of the tree lots and see families walking through the instant forest of standing trees, looking as I once did for the perfect one.
But, I was not to be swayed. Fortified seeing 40-plus big boxes packed, I reminded myself that it just seemed silly to go to all the tree and decorating trouble when there was no one to share it with. I tried to strengthen my resolve by visualizing the hassle of getting it straight, fighting with strands of lights that wouldn't work, and untangling those hangers for the ornaments that somehow always hook themselves into a huge knot…not to mention all the mess with needles all over the place.
On Christmas Eve I received calls from friends far and near. When asked what I was doing for Christmas, I told each, in one way or another, that it would be a quiet one: "I'm fine. I've got some packing to do. Watch a little TV. Some football. No problem." As friends, they were concerned about me being alone. Some said "Get in the car and come on over," or "We've got a house full, but we've always got room for one more," and so on. They were gracious but in the end were convinced that I was okay and looking forward to my son coming to visit.
But, I didn't realize just how empty it did feel to be alone at Christmas for the first time. Married with kids in tow, or later dating someone, or having one or more of the boys with me, there was always some place to go, some relative or friend to see, and some kind of built-in holiday overdrive to keep going. As much as it seemed right to take it easy and back away from it all for once, it also seemed somehow hollow and unnatural.
Later that day I was beginning to wane a bit from my firm stance. So, as a compromise with myself, I decided to go to the grocery store and buy a big ham with all the trimmings just as I remembered from my childhood. Thoughts of the great aromas coming from my mother's kitchen and the anticipation of a huge Christmas Eve dinner were on my mind, with plenty of leftovers left out on the table for evening snacks. I was now set on a course that would change Christmas more than I could have imagined.
On my way to the store I passed one of the tree lots I had seen in days past, once packed with what seemed to be more trees than could possibly ever be sold. But it was completely empty and abandoned. One thought was, "Well, at least none of them went to waste." Another was, "Even if I wanted a tree, they're all gone now." Satisfied that hurdle was over, I drove on.
But, instead of going to my usual store I decided to go to one I had only been to once before, a little farther away in a small country town. I thought the extra drive would be good, to clear my mind of all thoughts of a tree and help make time go by a little faster. I remembered the store being one of those that seemed to cater to the local folks, and that it had some special regional products that the larger stores didn't carry.
While shopping for a ham, I realized I knew nothing about hams. Luckily there were two matronly ladies who reminded me of my mother doing the same thing as me: Lifting and rolling hams around like small boulders in a rock quarry, checking for—well, I wasn’t quite sure what they were checking for. I was just trying to look as knowledgeable as they, while searching for a ham that was not for a family of five plus the in-laws, neighbors, friends and days and days of additional creative meals. It didn’t take long for them to notice that I didn't know what I was doing and courteously helped me on my way with a small "shoulder" ham that would, as they nodded happily, guaranteed to be perfect.
Feeling satisfied with my bundles, I was off. I would soon be savoring the aroma from my little—comparatively speaking—ham throughout the bareness of my little home. I looked forward to the yams and other goodies I had selected for a great Christmas Eve dinner with plenty left over for the big day, and for James and I to share when he arrived.
After loading the car, feeling no rush to get home, I changed course again heading home. I chose some back roads through the local neighborhoods of small post-WWII homes, which I was sure would connect me at some point to the main road I would need to get home.
As I slowly traveled from one stop sign to the next, cautiously placed at most intersections I came to, I saw something that struck me as strange. Here it was Christmas Eve and someone had already thrown out their Christmas Tree! It lay in a small grassy area adjacent to a cracked and tree root tilted sidewalk. I drove past slowly, looking at it to my right like I was watching a fallen child, waiting for her to get up and say "I'm OK" and, silly as it sounds, wave to me. As I passed, I looked in my rearview mirror and watched as the tree diminished. I prepared for my next stop sign and the turn I’d have to make there or somewhere farther along to reach the main road.
I stopped there for longer than I had to. Looking left, right, and left again, then repeating the stall tactic, I thought, "What a terrible way for such a pretty little tree to have to spend Christmas Eve. And Christmas Day! It'd still be there when the children would be wobbling past on shiny grow-into bicycles on Christmas morning. It'd lay there and be wind brushed by passing cars on their way to visit friends and or family and still be there to welcome them home again. It didn't seem fair. Then I began to reason that the offending family must have left for an extended trip and decided to discard it now. Or…maybe there was some other good reasoning that my mind just couldn’t seem to wrap itself around.
I continued down the street after stopping at the sign trying my best to put aside those thoughts and stay focused on my impending feast. I tried to focus all my fading plans about a quiet Christmas without the mess and bother of lights, ornaments, etc. But, like other changes in plans that day, I turned right at my next chance to do so, instead of left which likely would have connected me to the straight-shot road home. I was now on the way to save my little tree. And I knew it. There would not be any hesitation or another change of direction. I was not resigned to it, rather, like a child, I was excited by the thought of it.
When I came upon it again, I felt it was looking up at me. Smiling. Its branches twitching, waiting like an excited puppy to be held and loved.
I reached down and picked its meager weight off the damp ground and stood it erect. I gave it a tousled shake and watched as each row of frail branches opened like a flower.
That evening, with dinner in the oven and Christmas carols playing from my laptop, my little Christmas Tree was brightening the night as each string of lights were strategically placed, each ornament located best for size and color, and each strand of tinsel hung just so, individually of course. With all other lights off in the house, it stood proudly and shown like a beacon, soaring upward higher than any tree I'd ever known. I thanked God for my little Christmas Tree.
It was saying "I knew you'd come around," and all I could muster as a response was, "Sorry it took me so long."
