“That one looks good, Jim.” Mum said to Dad.
“It’s not bushy enough.” Dad replied.
“It’s the right height.”
“Not bushy.”
I sat quietly in the back seat. Mum and Dad drove along a rutted, dirt road, arguing over tree-after-tree. It was a yearly ritual.
“There’s one!” Mum pointed to the left.
“Where?” Dad asked.
“Right there, next to that big rock.”
“It’s too tall.”
“Cut it shorter!”
“Ethel, it’s too tall.” Dad argued back.
My impatience grew. “Let’s just pick one.” I thought to myself. I’d spent months dreaming about the toys in the Sears catalogue. I wanted our tree. It didn’t matter what it looked like. The faster we got a tree, the faster Santa would come.
“How about that one?” Dad said.
“I don’t know.” Mum hesitated.
We got out of the car. I followed Mum and Dad up the side of a snowy hill. “Looks good to me,” Dad said.
Mum walked around to the other side. “It’s a little bare in the back.” She stared at it. “I guess we could turn that side to the wall. No one will notice.”
Dad got the saw, cut it down, and stuffed it into the trunk.
“Yes!” I cheered to myself. “Christmas was here.” Dad mounted the tree on the stand and dragged it into the house. With Mum’s direction, he got it on the box in the corner.
“Turn it the other way,” Mum Said. “I can see the bare spot.” Dad turned the tree. “A little more.” He turned it again. “I guess that will do. Christmas cards will hide the bad spots.”
Then the words I knew would come were spoken. “We should have got the other one."
“It was too tall!” Dad said.
“We could have cut it shorter,” Mum countered. It was the same every year.
I grew up, married, and had to pick my own tree. Like my dad, I cruised the roads looking for a tree. I’d walk miles through the woods. Snow turned to ice on my jeans. Branches slapped my eyes. The cold wind turned my face red.
I’d spot a tree, trudge through the snow, and look at it. “Too tall.” Another would catch my eye. “Bare on one side.” I grumbled. “I guess I can turn that side to the wall or put a
card in there to hide the open spot.”
New laws were implemented. Cutting a tree in the wild was illegal. I discovered a place where I could go in November, tag my tree, and return before Christmas to cut it. It was the perfect solution: I could cut my own tree; the lot was easy for kids to walk through; and they supplied free saws, hot chocolate, and sleigh rides.
In November, I drove to the lot and tagged my tree. I wrote my name on the little tag, tied it in a visible spot, and walked away. “The kids are going to enjoy this!” I said out loud.
A week before Christmas, I packed the kids into my Chevrolet Chevette—a small hatch-back, from the 80s. We drove to the lot, trudged to the area where I tagged my tree, and walked in circles.
“Where’s our tree, Daddy?” Vanessa asked.
“It’s around here somewhere. Maybe over there.” I pointed.
Justin tossed a snow ball and whined. “Daddy, I’m cold.”
“I know, son. We’ll find it soon.” We didn’t. We wandered all over the lot and couldn’t find it. I got upset. Someone cut my tree, even though I had my tag on it. We gave up and
looked for another tree.
“There it is!” I pointed. Justin and Vanessa looked. It was tall—about twelve feet high. The branches spread evenly on all sides. We had a large room with a high ceiling. It would fit perfectly. “This looks good. What do you guys think?”
