Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

 

I was too young to own an ugly Christmas sweater.

I lived under the threat of getting one as a gift, but I refused to let that ruin Christmas.

My father had grown up in a large family during tough times financially. As Christmas time neared, he’d remind me of the Christmas he was surprised when his gifts were a wooden pencil and an orange. He was pleasantly surprised because he didn’t expect any gifts that year.

He’d become accustomed to not having much money. This was evident when it came time to buy a Christmas tree. We weren’t searching for the perfect tree. We were searching for the remaining tree. We’d drive by tree lots until we found one that had but one tree left. My father reasoned that the fellow working there would be anxious to unload his last tree so he could go home. It would be on sale. It was a patient man’s game, but the prey was finally located.

I walked with my father to the lot. I tried looking even more pitiful than usual in the hopes it’d reduce the cost. The man seemed optimistic, likely happy to see another living thing after spending so much time with a dead tree. Dad and the man dickered over the price. Dad won because it was his money. The rescue tree was the worst he’d ever bought. It had a few needles remaining, but they were nearly as rare as neckties on toads.

The tree was driven home, lashed to the roof of the Pontiac. This caused even the most stubborn of the needles still clutching to the tree to fall off.

The poor excuse for a tree was carried into the house. A red and green metal tree stand was fetched from the attic. The tree was clamped into that device and, even though it was beyond ever drinking again, water was provided.

I looked at the tree. It was a sad plant. It looked as if it had just struck out with the bases loaded.

This would be the worst Christmas ever, I had no doubt.

Another trip to the attic brought a couple of cardboard boxes of Christmas decorations. Each box had “Christmas” written on it. My mother was in charge of decorating the tree. It was tradition. It’s good to have traditions. My father’s job was to get the multi-colored Christmas tree lights to work. It was tradition. It was an onerous task that would have reduced a lesser man to tears.

My mother trimmed the tree with tinsel and cockeyed optimism. I said it looked as if someone had sneezed on the tree. I laughed uproariously at my world-class witticism as my mother worked to keep her frown from turning into a smile. She succeeded. Icicles followed the tinsel, and then the ornaments were hung on the boughs lacking needles. There was a slight variation on theme from one Christmas to the next as the casualty rate among fragile ornaments was high. The ornaments were like our dinner plates — no two were the same.

My mother took her time in finding the perfect location for each ornament. Each came with a story. She told what each represented, the origin of the ornament and whom it reminded her of. The stories changed with the ornaments and my mother’s memories. The declarations were more important than the decorations. The dog alternated her time between glaring suspiciously at the cat (the dog and the cat took pleasure in annoying one another) and wagging her tail appreciatively when she had the notion. She slid off into a nap. The cat sat contentedly in an empty box. The feline believed in living in the present. I listened intently to my mother’s stories. They were stories of my family, my history, my beginnings. The stories grabbed me. My family tree had become a discount Christmas tree made pretty.

The sparse foliage gave happiness room to dance among the branches. Ornaments may have been hung from the tree, but what dangled in their places were precious memories.

By the time Mom put the star on the top of that tree, a miracle had happened. That poor, pathetic excuse for an evergreen had been transformed into the most beautiful Christmas tree in the world. Everything had become remarkable. Angels come in many forms.

It wasn’t going to be the worst Christmas ever — even after a curious, climbing cat tipped the tree over at 2 in the morning.

I realized the cat had his traditions, too.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.