O’ Tannenbaum

It was my Dad’s job to purchase the tree every Christmas.

Accompanying him on the quest to acquire the best possible tree for the lowest conceivable price was a lesson in frugality and gamesmanship. Too early in the season would result in paying the posted price. Not enough snow would reduce demand, providing an opportunity to negotiate. And every day closer to the 24th increased the probability of a real deal. Dad tinkered with the alchemy of all these factors each year before venturing on his search with one or all of the boys in tow.

I remember one snowy December evening when Dad decided the time was right so we all climbed into the back of the car and headed off to the Woolco parking lot a few minutes up the road. The car would pass several other vendors along the way, smaller stands, typically pricier than Dad was willing to pay. He always negotiated, regardless of the posted amount, as we watched and cringed at his persistence and his threats to take his business elsewhere. He seemed to have more success at the larger places.

There were quite a number of trees available with nary a customer on the cold Tuesday evening. Dad was anticipating a good price as we scrounged through the racks, pulling out one tree at a time, assessing it’s shape, determining if the trunk was straight. We all weighed in with our opinion, deferring the final decision to Dad who settled on a lovely Scotch pine.

“This looks like a good one. How much?” he asked the hovering salesman.
“Twenty bucks.”
Dad scoffed. “You have got to be kidding. Does it come with real gold tinsel? I’ll give you ten.”
“Nope. The price for that tree, that size is twenty.” He stamped his feet from the cold.
“What? You mean to tell me there is no room for less? Look, I will give twelve. That is all it’s worth.”
“Sorry sir but these trees sell for twenty.”
“All right. I will give you fifteen. Otherwise I am going across the street.”
The man took another drag from his cigarette staring silently.
“C’mon boys.” Dad started walking away.
Normally this tactic would prompt the salesman to counter or surrender to the final suggestion and we would be stuffing the prize into the trunk, tying down the lid for the drive home.
We moved in the direction of the vehicle as I took a glance over my shoulder to watch the man exhale a cloud of smoke, toss his butt into the snow and saunter to his trailer.
No comeback. Nothing.
“Dam. That usually works. I really liked that one.”

Of course we eventually purchased the tree at one of those smaller lots. The original asking price was higher as Dad bargained it down to twenty, conceding to us a tinge of regret about his earlier attempt.

After I left home, my parents succumbed to the allure of an artificial tree, as do an increasing number of people, agreeing with the cromulent logic of less fuss, less mess, and less money, in the long run. I continued to insist on the need to buy a live Christmas tree, looking for deals, paying the advertised rate at one of the diminishing number of pop-up lots.

Our first apartment in London was small and money was tight. Olga and I went searching for a bargain only days before Christmas in 1983 and found a scrawny little conifer, suitably priced at only five dollars. We nailed it to a wooden box to add some height and to ensure our cat, Heidi, wasn’t able to easily knock the tree over. (All of our cats, Heidi, Milo and Otis, and our current dog, Odin, were never a threat to topple the tree unlike Midge, the mischievous kitty from Olena and Daniel). It was our special tree alighted with handmade decorations.

Condo rules prevented the acquisition of a real tree for our first three Christmases in Toronto, changing as soon as we moved into our new home, our first house, on Sigmont street in 1987. Olga was VERY pregnant with Olena and Nicholas was two and a half as we ventured out to the streets in search of the Christmas grail. The local Canadian Tire seemed to have the best selection and some of the best prices. We paid the asking price, delighted in our find. Gary joined us in decorating the voluminous pine standing perilously on the inadequate stand acquired at the last minute. I tied fishing lines to the front window curtain rod for added security. The number of pictures in our scrapbook speak to the joy of that evening.

A live tree has continued to adorn our homes ever since. In later years, Nicholas’s entrepreneurial boy scout leader decided on selling Christmas trees as a fundraiser. The scouts and their parents were each asked to sign up for at least one shift as their contribution to the lucrative endeavor. Naturally we purchased our tree at the same time. Although those days have been many years in passing, and one can find better deals at Ikea or Loblaws, we continue to patronize the 401st Scout Christmas tree drive rationalizing the additional cost as our contribution to the cause.

The $90 price tag for a 6-7 foot Fraser fir this year engendered the latest appeal for a reconsideration of this tradition only to reaffirm my stand that as long as I am able, we will acquire a real one.

It is the imperfection I most enjoy.

Boxed trees are unerringly symmetrical, ideally shaped, pre-lit on an appropriate stand and neatly packed away at the end of the season. Every live tree enters our home with a different challenge despite best efforts to select the most flawless.

There are those with deceptively crooked trunks requiring careful stand placement and the ongoing concern we might find it on the floor in the morning. There are the trees, when unraveled from the twine and the boughs settle, that display open areas, needed to be thoughtfully turned to the backside or filled with larger ornaments. There are careful calculations to determine which lower branches to trim in order to ensure enough room for the presents, but not so much as for the tree to appear bare or top heavy. There have been ongoing experiments to find the ideal stand, one to handle all the peculiarities we inevitably encounter. There is the decision about how to prepare the bottom of the trunk to absorb water so as to keep as many needles on the tree until the new year. Then there is the final, deftly maneuvered removal to prevent a path of dried needles leading from the bow window, out the front door and onto the street. And real trees provide a burst of pine smell when you enter the room. Every tree, every year has it’s own story.

Our tree is lovely this year, requiring little adjustments, standing erect in the front window, almost perfect, just a little boring. It went up on December 2nd, the earliest date ever given we no longer need to retain it until after Ukrainian Christmas which now follows the Gregorian calendar.

I just hope it doesn’t dry out and the needles will last.

However you celebrate, I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and a Happy Holidays shared with the people you love.