Bringing in the Tree

I smelled the scent of evergreen the other day; and as it so often does, it reminded me of Christmas trees, and especially the scent as the tree first came into the house out of the cold outdoors.

Every year, some time after Thanksgiving, my father would get out the Christmas lights and test them.  They were the old sets of eight bulbs in series, so that if one burned out the whole string went dark.  If one of the sets didn’t light, he would patiently screw a spare bulb in one socket after another till he found the bad bulb; and at the end he had all the strings lit, and a few bad bulbs.  I would carefully note what was needed to replace them – two red, one green, one white – for when we next went to Woolworth or Kress.

The lights would then be put away for a few weeks.  But it had been a sign: Christmas was coming.

Then, a few days before Christmas, the tree would be bought.  We’d set out, my parents, my two older brothers, and me, to find the perfect tree.  And, at least in memory, we always did.  Sometimes we went around the corner to the fruit and vegetable store, “FRUITS – AL MILANO – VEGETABLES”.  Mr. Milano would have some trees leaning up against the front of the store.  Other years we went blocks and blocks away, to Webster Avenue, where there would be a truck full of trees parked at the curb, with more trees lined up against the wall of a brick warehouse.  Wooden posts held the “Xmas Trees” sign.

At either place, some of the trees would be tied up with twine; others untied.  My parents would look at the untied ones first.  Too short, too thin, too irregular; very rarely, too tall or too wide.  Then the man, who always seemed to be wearing a red-and-black checkered coat and knit hat, would take his knife and start cutting the twine on the trees that were still tied up.  Too thin, too short … and then, the perfect tree.  My mother would ask if it were too tall.  My father would say he didn’t think so.  My brothers and I would all say it wasn’t too tall, could we get that one?  A last slow examination, turning it slowly to make sure there were no bare or irregular patches, and my parents would be satisfied.

The tree would be bought, tied up again, and my father and brothers would take turns carrying it home.  Sometimes I was allowed to “help carry it”, holding it near the top, and no doubt making things harder for whomever was doing the real carrying.

We lived on the ground floor of a three family house. The tree would stay out in the cold, by the back door, until Christmas Eve.  Meanwhile, indoors, the tree stand, the boxes of ornaments, the lights, the nativity set and all the other decorations came out of the closet.  The annual decision was made: should the tree go in the bay window, or in the corner of the living room?

Finally, in the evening, the tree would be brought in. At least once it had snow in its branches –  at least once, though in my memory it always had snow.  And in with it would come that scent, and a sense of the dark mystery of the forest.

Sometimes the tree would in fact be too tall, and the decision would have to be made to cut at the bottom, possibly losing some of the wide lower branches, perfect for hanging some of the old, heavy glass ornaments; or to trim the crown, which was one of the selling points for its regularity.  Once, before I can remember, my brothers tell me that our father patiently cut the tree in the middle and spliced it, to preserve the perfect top and bottom.

My mother and brothers and I would put the ornaments and tinsel on; but first, my father would put the lights on, working with infinite patience to distribute them evenly.  To this day, when I put lights on my tree, I always feel that I am doing a complex and difficult job as best I can.

At last, the room lights would be put out, and the tree lit, and it was Christmas.

I smelled the scent of evergreen the other day, and as it so often does, it reminded me of Christmas trees, and especially the scent as the tree first came into the house out of the cold outdoors, bringing snow and the dark mystery of the forest.

I smelled it when I was putting an evergreen covering on my father’s grave.  I took as much care as I could to place it exactly right, remembering his infinite patience with things that gave us pleasure.

For which I never thanked him.