By Elaine Viets
This is my last blog before the holiday break, and I wanted to tell you about my favorite Christmas memory.
When I was growing up in St. Louis, I waited for my grandfather to bring home the Christmas tree. Grandpa had a real knack for picking them.
Every year, he had the worst tree on the block. It was skinny, scraggly and bald. The needles fell off when he brought it through the door.
It looked like a bottle brush.
Grandpa didn’t buy a tree. He rescued it.
He’d wait till the last minute on Christmas Eve. Then he’d stop at the local tree lot and buy one for a buck. He overpaid.
Grandma would take one look at the homely thing and burst into tears. “Just once, I’d like a real tree, like normal people,” she’d say.
We kids would burst into laughter. You had to work had to find a tree that ugly.
Grandpa looked bewildered. After all, he’d saved a poor little tree from a cold lot. And now everyone was mad at him.
Operation Tree Rescue kicked into high gear. Dad would get extra branches from the tree lot and try to drill holes in the spindly trunk to make the tree look fuller. He had to be careful. The tree’s trunk was skinny.
He strung the tree with lights, which made the branches sag. Now we had a bald, round-shouldered tree, like a bad blind date.
Grandma would Christmas cookies and Christmas cards in the wide-open spaces. She brought out the colorful glass ornaments. Then she’d fill the biggest holes in the branches with popcorn strings and beads.
The tinsel went on last. That covered a lot of problematic places. Grandpa’s tree ended up looking like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family.
Meanwhile, Grandma’s normally pristine carpet was knee-deep in needles. The tree shed needles we didn’t even know it had. Grandma vacuumed twice a day, and there were still needles.
Every holiday, Grandpa would surpass himself. No, considering what those trees looked like, he’d outstrip himself. “Next year, just bring home a broom handle,” we’d tell him, as we tried to rescue his latest find. He’d sit in his recliner, looking pleased with himself.
Year after year, the saga of the rescue tree continued. Until it didn’t.
My grandparents are long gone, and I can have any tree I want. Big, beautiful trees. Perfectly shaped trees. Trees that are decorator delights.
But none of them are as good as Grandpa’s rescue trees.
Happy Holidays, however you celebrate.
If I may, Ma’am… and at the risk of muzzling the muse, your story has inspired the following ([very] rough draft):
THE GREAT CHRISTMAS TREE RESCUE
© 2023 G. Smith (BMI [no less]) & Elaine Viets
===================================
Each December,
I remember,
Christmas with my grands.
We’d come through the door,
About a week before,
With food and presents in our hands.
Holly and mistletoe,
The warm fire’s family glow,
Are my fondest memories.
We’d start decorating;
Granddad kept us waiting,
To select and trim the tree.
Now he always picked the tree,
Each and every Christmas Eve,
From the last ones out on the lot.
Granny would sigh,
And then roll her eyes,
At the sad, shedding thing that he’d bought.
We’d lend him hand,
With the tree-stand,
Though it was clear that he didn’t need it.
The sorry sad sight,
Didn’t put up a fight,
Even after he’d cut the twine and he’d freed it.
We knew about the tree downtown,
And the big one in New York City;
But Granddad’s seemed to fulfill his dream;
Of always showing kindness and pity.
We broke out the lights,
And watched as he’d fight,
The knotted cords, but his patience remained unflagging.
Then we’d add the balls,
And baubles – they’d fall,
‘Cause the branches by now were all sagging.
Granny hung cookies,
So no one could see,
The empty spots showing here and there.
Popcorn and tinsel,
Were strung on the bristles,
And suddenly Christmas joy filled the air.
We knew about the tree downtown,
And the big one in New York City;
But Granddad’s seemed to live up to his dream;
Of always being pretty.
Granny vacuumed the needles,
Granddad sat and took the wheedling,
A family tradition, I suppose.
Rescuing those trees,
Seemed to rescue me,
And that lesson, I hope, still shows.
We knew about the tree downtown,
And the big one in New York City;
But Granddad’s seemed to live up to his dream;
Of always showing kindness and pity…
And of always being pretty.
Merry merry, Ma’am… and to everyone else here in TKZ-land…
I love your memory, Elaine! And George’s poem is perfect. For years my dad waited until Christmas Eve to get a tree because they would be cheaper, so that brought back memories.
I’ve done exactly that–exploring a lot on Christmas eve, buying an awful tree for $1.00. But the final result was actually good: A friend had shown me how to plug a tree, and I had plenty of ornaments and such, and a lovely “Finnegan” to place atop it. As Charles Addams once said, “Half the fun is making it yourself.”
Elaine, your story reminded me of my first Christmas after I was called to active duty in the middle of the Vietnam War. I was a few thousand miles away from home and what with everything else going on, I didn’t see much point in setting up a Christmas tree.
I met a sweet girl who wouldn’t allow me to skip Christmas. We went out late on Christmas Eve to find a tree. Arriving at what seemed like the last tree lot still open, there was one tree left and it looked like the sad little thing from a Charlie Brown cartoon. She offered the guy $1 and before I could apologize for her insult, he cried out, “Sold!”
She explained later, he probably had to stay until he was sold out and we helped him get out of the cold night air. I had no decorations or lights but she said her family had some old ones they weren’t using.
I had a great Christmas and realized that girl was a keeper. I married her and we’ve been together for over half a century.
Sorry I’m late, Elaine. LOVED your Christmas memory! Your grandfather sounds like a sweet, caring soul. Merry Christmas 🎄