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| Christmas Tree Farm |
Today is the 5th anniversary of the passing of my Father. I am looking over at the fireplace with our Christmas stockings hanging waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. Removing my glasses to enhance the twinkling lights on the tree. Our 4.5 pound pet Thunder Cat Newman is curled up sleeping on her blanket surely dreaming of hunting big game in the wilds in our back yard. And myself, I find myself thinking about Christmas pasts with my Father.
In the 1960's, artificial tree's were a novelty, not many families had them, and certainly not ours. Oh no, we had the real McCoy. Every year in mid December, Dad would embark on a sojourn to find the perfect tree for our family. I loved going with him. We usually drove out to the Christmas tree farm way past Western Reserve Road. To a six year old, Western Reserve Road was a far drive. As we turned left on Route 626 the scenery changed to farm land. Twenty minutes or so later we arrived at the tree farm.
Dad and I would survey the rows of tree's on the farm and select the perfect one for us. Dad would always ask me which one we should take. I always picked the tree Dad wanted as he would inject subtle hints along our search to steer me to the right tree.
(This one has no bare spots, the branches were solid, the needles weren't brittle, the size was right, etc) Dad would pay for the tree and
we would tie the tree on the roof of our car and return home.
Most of our tree's were ceiling height, (8 Feet) and roughly six feet wide. The tree would dominate our living room for the two weeks with the fresh scent of pine wafting through the house. We couldn't wait to help Mom and Dad decorate it but before the decorations were brought up from the basement, Dad made sure he secured the tree so it would not fall.
The standard ritual was to cut the bottom of the trunk to make it level to sit in the tree stand upright. Second, Dad would tie several wires to the center of the tree and then attach the wires to small anchors on the floor boards on the two walls the tree sat against. With 7 children, the tree had been on the ground several times throughout the years. The extra anchorage insured the tree would stay upright.
The heirachy of tree decorating began with dad. He would untangle the string lights by laying them in rows on the living room carpet. Again, with 7 children running around, it was a lucky day when bulbs were not stepped on breaking them. I was the string tester. I would plug a string into the wall outlet and if they worked, I would drag them over to the good side of the room. If a string would not light, I would check each bulb to make sure they were all screwed in tightly. Most of the time that was the cause of the faulty string. Once the testing was complete, Dad would begin to string them on to the tree.
Starting from the top, Dad would wind the lights around the tree dropping down a few inches working his way down. I would have the next string in hand ready to hand them to Dad as he walked on carefully placed kitchen chairs around the tree. As he worked his way down, I would yank the chairs away and keep feeding him the light strings until the last light was placed. Dad would walk to the far corner of the room and stare at the tree to make sure his handiwork was true.
The second phase of the trimming of the tre was the tinsel. I placed the kitchen chairs back in place in front of the tree and Dad begun to rope the tinsel around the tree as he had done with the lights. In less than ten minutes, the tinsel was on and it was time for the bulbs.
Mom took over with the bulbs. Each child had their own bulb with their name emblazoned on it. Mine was a silver bulb with red lettering spelling out Patrick. Each child placed their own bulb on the tree. I remember once I dropped my bulb and it shattered into a hundred pieces. I was devastated. Seeing this, Dad quickly grabbed a large silver bulb from the box, took out a black magic marker and wrote my name on the bulb. He said it was my new bulb and Mom would add the glitter to it later. He told me to pick a place on the tree to hang it.
The last thing to complete the tree trimming were the icicles to hang on the branches. My sisters would gently place piece by piece the icicles carefully. My method was to throw a handful at close range at the tree and watch them float in the air and settle on the branches.
The tree was now completely trimmed and immediately we began another tradition. We would all take our shoes off and rub our feet on the carpet and approach the tree and slowly stick our finger out towards the icicles. Once your hand connected with the icicle, you would get a static shock and even hear a loud "ZAP" in the air. The more you rubbed your feet on the carpet, the stronger the shock you would get. Each of us took a turn and then we would see who could get the loudest spark.
One final game was a classic game. It was called I'm thinking of a bulb. One of the brothers and sisters would describe a bulb on the tree offering clues as to which one it was. The other kids would guess which one it was.
Those were the days my friends. The entire family huddled in the living room, seated on the couches, all the lights out except the Christmas tree lights, interacting as a family.
Merry Christmas Dad,
Rest In Peace.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
LURKING ON THE GRASSY KNOLL
