One of the most cherished traditions of the Christmas season is bringing home the Christmas tree. I remember as a child my whole family would pile into the old station wagon and head for the tree lot in town. Traditionally we didn’t put the tree up until Christmas Eve (Mom’s rules!) but we bought it a couple of weeks before that each year to have a good selection. We’d all jump out of the car and scatter into the dark recesses of the tree lot, and cries of, “Come look at this one, Mom! Come see this one, Dad!” would be heard from all directions. There were six of us, plus Mom and Dad. We’d argue over this tree or that, searching for the fattest, fullest, tallest tree on the lot. But ultimately it was Mom who had the final say. She always chose a big, Blue Spruce. Our home had high ceilings, so it was usually over eight feet tall. Dad and the tree lot guy would wrestle the prickly monster onto the roof of the Chevy wagon – not as high up as today’s wagon, the mini-van – and tie it down. Then off home we’d go, singing Christmas carols and fighting over prime seating.
Back then you didn’t worry about seat belts, so generally the wayback was laid down, and all of us kids would crowd into the back on piles of blankets and bounce around like jumping beans all the way home.
At home, Dad would place the cut end of the tree into a bucket of water, which he kept religiously filled until the big day came and that magnificent tree came inside and was ceremoniously shoved and screwed into the old-fashioned, red and green metal stand, accompanied by much cussing, and eager “help” from us kids. Nothing skins a knuckle like the screws on a Christmas tree stand, let me tell you.
Then Dad would stand it up and one of us kids would belly under there and fill the stand with water. Dad would then anchor the tree to the wall on two sides with fishing line – our old Siamese cat, Sam, was a climber. The story of the year the tree came down and many antique ornaments shattered is often retold even today.
Then all the kids would run pell mell up to the attic and bring down the box of ornaments and the box of Christmas doo dads. And somebody else would carry down the box with the family nativity, inherited from Aunt Mildred. I always carried the box with my very own nativity, given to me on my twelfth birthday by my godmother, Aunt Priscilla. That nativity still goes up every year to this day. The first thing I always did -- and still do! -- when I opened that box was to sniff deeply of that good, German rubber. Ahhhh. That smells like Christmas, even today.
We’d thunder back downstairs with our treasures, and open the boxes on the living room floor while Dad struggled with the strands of fat, colored tree lights. New words were learned on such occasions.
After the lights were up, Mom and Dad would sit on the couch enjoying a little Christmas cheer while we kids unloaded the ornaments. Each child was allowed to hang his or her own, personal ornaments, and how we cherished each one! Our Grandma Mullen gave us each a new one most years, so we had a nice collection. My personal favorite was the pink, velvet elephant perched on a blue circus ball.
Dad hung the colored, glass balls, just so, with Mom offering little bits of advice from the couch.
“There’s a blank spot over there, Gene. No, just a bit higher. There you go!” she’d say, smiling serenely. Good eggnog, I think in retrospect.
Finally it would be time for the angel. This was a sore spot with me, as two of my little sisters had angels which alternated years as the tree topper. One had yellow hair, the other, pink. Their dresses were made of burlap. As the oldest, it was hard for me to swallow that special privilege going to them. A sad confession, but there you are. It was probably character building.
(My mother eventually did, out of pity, get me an angel. She had a red, polka-dotted, cardboard skirt and hard, plastic hair painted gold. She held candles in her hands, and had very seductive eyes. However, she didn't make it to the top of a tree until I got married, and was ousted when my first daughter was born, and was given a lovely, Precious Moments tree-topper angel by her God-mother.)
At last, the tree would be done. The traditional decorations, such as the plastic and red velvet mistletoe ball and the odd, dry-cleaner-bag wreath made by Grandma Mullen; the candles shaped like Santa and Mrs. Claus which got a little stumpier every year and could never be burned; the bowl of silver and blue balls which shed fake snow; the little, wooden angel family representing all of us; and the statue of the Holy Family, were placed around the house.
We’d all drink hot chocolate and sit in the darkened living room, listening to the Firestone Christmas albums playing on the LP player, staring at the tree, and enjoying a rare moment of familial harmony.
Those were good times. I’ve tried to carry them through for my own children, and we have incorporated some of my childhood traditions and some of their dad’s. And we’ve made up some of our own. The tree goes up Thanksgiving weekend, and we have all the fun of admiring the ornaments and enjoying that lovely, fresh tree – I prefer a fir – through mid-January. But the fetching of the Chlovechok tree is another story for another day. Merry Christmas from the Chlovechok family!
