A Christmas Memory

As usual Dad was the last one to get into our purple mini-van. He was wearing his worn-out navy blue jacket; the same one he wears every year. His gloves were brown faux leather and way too big for his hands. He also had his brown water-proof shoes on, which still had grass on them from the last time he mowed the lawn. This was Dad’s cutting-down-the-tree outfit, even though we all knew he wouldn’t be cutting down a tree. As soon as Dad turned on the ignition key we found ourselves listening to Nat King Cole singing “Chestnuts Roasting Over an Open Fire.” Dad lasted a short five minutes, and then the sound started getting softer and softer. Finally mom realized her music wasn’t even playing anymore, and she cranked it back up to where it was before. This went on for about 10 minutes and then Dad just threw up his hands. Mom won.

This year we went to Mandeville Garden Centre, our favorite spot for buying Christmas trees. It’s kind of a boring place to look at, but at Christmas time they line the doors and windows with swags of bright green fir, leathery brown pine cones, and cherry red holly, which I tried eating one time because I thought it was a cranberry. All around me was the unmistakeable scent of pine. I could hardly wait to pick out our Christmas tree and bring it home.

Before I knew it Mom was anxiously looking at the Christmas decorations. Without fail she buys 1 or 2 every year, even though it takes her about two hours to haul down all the ornaments she already owns. Me, I like looking around the giftware department for last minute presents. This year I bought my sister a frosted white coffee mug which can never tip over, and a tea infuser which looks like a deep sea diver that got stranded in polluted water. The hardest part of buying gifts at Mandeville is making sure the person you’re buying it for doesn’t see it. Sometimes I have to resort to putting it under my coat. I used to do that until one time the shop manager, a chubby Latino man with a white shirt that highlights manager, asked me if I was shop-lifting.

It took us about half-an-hour to make our way to where the trees were at. The lot is indoors and filled with row upon row of trees that are hung with rope from big hooks stuck in the ceiling. Before we did anything I went straight for the watery cocoa and cold popcorn hiding in the corner of the lot. I love the feel of the warm cocoa going down my dry throat, even if it tastes bad. The cold popcorn is quite a tasty snack, which Mom says grows on you . Together, the two make a perfect combination.

Then it was the long tedious job of finding a tree everybody could agree on. Usually I find one, but Jen doesn’t like it or she finds one Mom doesn’t like. We never seem to be able to agree. Dad was just circling around like a dog waiting to go outside, wishing he was at home doing something, anything else on his computer.

Literally we had to twirl every tree around in a complete circle so we could properly judge its symmetry. Some of the trees like the Noble fir are a bluish-grey colour and have short stubby needles that rarely fall off. Others like the Grand fir have dark green glossy swoopy branches. You can always tell an old tree because the needles are dry and brittle, breaking off as soon as you touch it.

If we haven’t decided within an hour, we give up and go to our other favorite tree lot: Art Knapps in Burnaby. Everything gets played back: ornaments, giftware, popcorn and cocoa, tree lot. By then Dad is getting visibly antsy, like a kid needing to go to the bathroom. He starts suggesting anything. He knows we have to buy a tree before we can go out for dinner. One year he suggested a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. Mom said “Great idea,” and then we bought four of those weepy little trees. That year we had two stations of trees in our house. Dad was really happy about that.

Finally we found the perfect tree, a beautiful six foot tall Nordmann fir. It was so fresh the needles didn’t fall off even when I bent them backwards. We found a clerk to help us cut down the tree, and shove it through the metal canister, to put the net on. I’m not trying to sound stereotypical but the clerks are usually around 6ft 3 ginger with a little beard and wearing a plaid shirt.

Mom is usually the one who pays for the tree. She gets the tag, takes it to the cashier, pays the money, gets the receipt, and brings it back to the clerk to prove we paid for it. The clerk helps Dad toss the tree on top of our mini van; then Mom has to help Dad buckle the tree down. That’s where the green and yellow bungee cords come in handy. Dad hooks the cords onto our roof rack and then tosses them over the tree to Mom, who catches the end and hooks it onto her side of the roof rack.

Once the tree was secure, everybody was happy and we headed off to a restaurant. We usually go to what Dad calls a formula restaurant. It used to be Sammy J. Peppers across from Metrotown; but it’s gone out of business. This Christmas we went to Joey’s on Lougheed Highway. Our family is big on doing the same thing over and over again. We’ll probably keep going to Joey’s until it goes out of business too.

As we drove home I could see Dad anxiously looking at the sunroof making sure the tree was still there. Jen and I were wistfully looking out the window hoping for snow, and Mom was singing along with her Christmas carols.