Christmas Trees

The day before the first Sunday of Advent, half-open boxes and piles of decorations were everywhere. 

In our household, the beginning of Advent is the proper time to bring out decorations. Not ALL the decorations. We begin slowly with the Advent wreath and Advent calendars, seasonal colours, angel-shaped candle holders. The stable, the crèche handmade by Dean’s father from local barn board, sits prominently but remains vacant until Christmas Eve when Mary, Joseph and the donkey arrive from their long journey through the house. Santa-themed decor appears on December 5th, the eve of St. Nicholas Day, when our kids traditionally hung their stockings. The Christmas tree is absent until around mid-December. We won’t schedule that big job too close to an already hectic Christmas Eve, but we want it to look (kinda) fresh. After all, as Dean literally preaches each November to our St. Aidan community, there are Twelve Days of Christmas. Like all “good” Anglicans, our tree stays up until Epiphany, January 6th.

Discovering that the bulb for our Swedish paper star needed replacing, Dean left to run a few errands. When you’re out, I reminded him, see whether the Rotary Club has opened their Christmas tree lot.  During this year of panic buying on everything from toilet paper to bicycles, we wouldn’t want to miss our chance for a Christmas tree.  We would stand it outdoors for a few weeks (somewhere safe from neighbourhood cats) as we often did, until the right time to set it up.

An hour later Dean reentered the house carrying our special Lee Valley tree stand. “I bought a tree,” he smilingly explained, hands sticky with sap. He said it was a good thing that he bought when he did, since Saskatchewan grown trees (trucked in from the northern forests) were selling fast.  He began to unpack the tree stand onto the living room floor – just as though we are a family that puts up their tree in November.

I gaped at him, astonished, not wanting to dim the seasonal cheer with my response, choosing what I hoped was a tone suited to such an enormous break with tradition. “What are you doing?!” I blurted. Dean barely looked up. He told me that the trunk had been trimmed at the lot; he wanted the tree in water right away, rather than leaving it on the step to dry out in the mild weather. We wouldn’t add lights or decorate it in any way; it would just be the tree. 

Minutes later our adult son Evan came up the stairs. “What are you doing?!” he echoed to his dad, bewildered. I explained. That evening our daughter arrived home from college for dinner.  Stepping through the door, she greeted us with, “Why is the tree up?” Later, from a church friend making a surprise cake delivery and on FaceTime with our youngest son studying in Ontario, we heard the same responses. What’s up with the tree? The only ones who seemed truly comfortable with this clear break in family tradition were Dean and our one-eyed cat Bilbo, who immediately curled up (as he did every December) in his beloved spot on the tree skirt.

The mixed emotions around procuring this year’s tree reminded me of another Christmas tree acquisition from when the children were young.

Ten years ago we lived on the treeless plains of west central Saskatchewan in a fairly remote, quiet town of roughly 1000 residents. There were advantages to the Eston culture. We knew and were known. Our kids travelled to school on their two legs or rode their bikes, leaving them tipped onto their pedals in the short dry grass while the kids ran inside. If my daughter escaped while I was in line for the cashier, a staff member came to find me, explaining that Emily was to be found in aisle 3. If I found something to purchase at the local craft fair and was short of cash, the seller might suggest I take it home and return to pay later. We had a hardware store and a grocery/liquor store and a gift shop. Beyond these, the nearest town for shopping was a 45-minute drive down the rural highway.

We had returned to Eston after living four years in England and had lost track of the cycle of town activities. So I paid attention when, come November, notices advertising the annual Scout troop Christmas tree fundraiser began running in the Eston Press Review. One day only, from 5:00 to 8:00 p.m., the Scouts would have a small number of trees available for purchase. If we missed this opportunity we must make a 130 km round trip to Kindersley for a real tree, stuffing it into our van like The Grinch stuffed Cindy-Lou Who’s tree up the chimney. 

I began to plan, consulting with a friend who married into a local family. Lilah lived up to the town’s reputation for big-hearted generosity. We should, she insisted, borrow their pickup truck to transport the tree; our Honda minivan simply would not do. Furthermore, on the designated evening we must not dawdle. The gates to the tree lot would open promptly at 5:00 and we had better be there.  

On the designated evening, having left work earlier than usual, Dean and I parked in our borrowed truck next to the tree lot with all the other vehicles. We waited inside, warm on the heated seats rather than joining the chatty group visiting near the locked gate, tapping their feet against the cold. Through the chain link fence we could see the trees, wrapped snuggly in their netting, leaned around the perimeter in single rows.  

When at 5:00 p.m. the gate was hauled open, the mood in the chilly air changed. Tree shoppers dove inside, sober, intent, suddenly all business. While we put on our gloves and wrapped our scarves a little snugger, those trees were being snapped up. As we stepped onto the lot, most folks were already lined up to pay, beginning to relax, flushed with success. In the dimming light Dean and I inspected the few remaining trees scattered around the lot. Other than height, what can one really tell about trees shut tightly like so many closed umbrellas? How disappointed the kids would be if, after getting it home, it turned out to be a dud, a Charlie Brown tree. We shrugged to one another, selected what we hoped was a lively-looking specimen, and joined the (much-shorter) queue to hand over our cheque. From the parking lot came the sound of gravel crackling under truck tires. When I looked around, all I saw were the twinkley red tail-lights of tree-bearing trucks receding, at speed, down the roads in every direction.  My watch read 5:12 p.m.

Now those people knew what they were doing.