This launches my Christmas series, where I will be sharing with you stories of my childhood Christmas traditions. Check back weekly for new posts.
Growing up, I never thought my family was poor, and maybe the reason we weren’t poor was because my dad was such a cheapskate even when he didn’t need to be. Take for example, the acquisition of a Christmas tree.
When I was at church last Sunday, the woman behind me was telling me all about how her family had already gotten their Christmas tree. They always make a really big deal of it, bundling up for the cold, singing songs in the car, searching for the perfect tree, cutting it down, taking it home, and drinking hot chocolate. Oh, the bliss of a tradition that will never be mine.
As a kid, my dad’s strategy was to find the best looking and cheapest tree possible. Back then, $20 was an outrageous amount to spend. $15 was not good either. Ten bucks was acceptable, and $5 was a deal. I guess my dad was just not that into buying something that grew by the hundreds in the acres behind our house.
In fact, when I was about five years old, my dad planted like, 12 little fir trees in a section of our backyard. I think his hope was that they would grow tall and robust, and all he’d have to do in the years to come is hack down a tree right out his back door.
My father was typically very obstinate about going to find a tree. Usually my sister, me, and my mom would drive around in the car and look for tree farms with hand painted U-Cut signs. When we found a good place, we would rush home, drag my dad into his pick-up, and make him go with us to get the tree.
My dad’s favorite place to get Christmas trees was Lone Pine, which is an intersection about ten minutes from our house. There is a white barn at Lone Pine, and the farmer sells berries and produce on a cart there. Most of the time it’s on the honor system. If you take a carton of strawberries, you put a dollar in the tin can, because there was usually no one manning the area. The farmer at Lone Pine took this same lax approach with his trees. He’d prop them up next to the barn, advertising 5, 10, or 15 dollars for his trees. My dad liked this place because it was on the way home from work, so he could just throw it in the back of the pick up. I know what else you’re thinking, and yes, he put the full price that was tagged on the tree into the tin can.
When we got lucky, Dad would drive us up the twists and turns of the hillside and find a really good tree farm. We lived out in the country, the boondocks really, and there were many tree farms near us. The hunt was a bit difficult, as we are a picky family and do not like Noble Firs. We’ve got so many ornaments that my mother has always insisted we get the bushier type, which has more branches to hang things on. Of course when we got to the tree farm, my dad would negotiate with the farmer, trying to jew the price down. This was a new phrase that I learned as a kid. Let me tell you the etymology. The term “jew down” comes from the noun Jew, and it is considered offensive, as it is based on the stereotype that Jews are stingy or miserly. If you asked my dad though, I’m pretty sure he’d just tell you that Jews are smarter than the rest of us, because if you pay full price, you’re an idiot. As a child though, I always thought the term was “chew down.” I think it was about middle school that I figured it out.
One year my dad was really dragging his heels about the whole Christmas tree thing, so my mom and us girls had to find a tree that would fit in the trunk of the car. We ended up getting one for $15 at Hi-School Pharmacy, of all places. It was probably five feet tall and we stuffed it in the back with the trunk bungeed down.
When I was 14, my dad insisted that some of the trees planted in the backyard must be ready. So my sister, being 16 and handy with a saw, went out and cut one down. The tree was very gangly, as no one had ever pruned the thing during its adolescence. There were many holes that even ornaments could not fill up. Plus, it didn’t smell right.
The best tree we ever got was the one my dad picked up on the side of the road. He surprised us one evening by dragging in a tall, bushy tree. He said that he was driving home, and he just saw the thing lying in the ditch. Must have fallen off some truck or something. He was really pleased with himself for picking up a free tree. I have to admit, it was beautiful.
I realize this story makes it sound a bit like I was a poor, underprivileged child who never got a proper Christmas tree. I assure you, we managed to get one every year. That’s sort of the tradition that I appreciate now--the challenge. It was always “what do we have to do in order to get a tree this year?” You never knew where it was going to come from, what it was going to look like, or how you’d get it home.
But man, once that tree was standing in the living room, colored lights glowing and decked out in ornaments, well, that was a feeling of satisfaction.
Check back next Sunday for a new Christmas Tradition tale.
Growing up, I never thought my family was poor, and maybe the reason we weren’t poor was because my dad was such a cheapskate even when he didn’t need to be. Take for example, the acquisition of a Christmas tree.
When I was at church last Sunday, the woman behind me was telling me all about how her family had already gotten their Christmas tree. They always make a really big deal of it, bundling up for the cold, singing songs in the car, searching for the perfect tree, cutting it down, taking it home, and drinking hot chocolate. Oh, the bliss of a tradition that will never be mine.
As a kid, my dad’s strategy was to find the best looking and cheapest tree possible. Back then, $20 was an outrageous amount to spend. $15 was not good either. Ten bucks was acceptable, and $5 was a deal. I guess my dad was just not that into buying something that grew by the hundreds in the acres behind our house.
In fact, when I was about five years old, my dad planted like, 12 little fir trees in a section of our backyard. I think his hope was that they would grow tall and robust, and all he’d have to do in the years to come is hack down a tree right out his back door.
My father was typically very obstinate about going to find a tree. Usually my sister, me, and my mom would drive around in the car and look for tree farms with hand painted U-Cut signs. When we found a good place, we would rush home, drag my dad into his pick-up, and make him go with us to get the tree.
My dad’s favorite place to get Christmas trees was Lone Pine, which is an intersection about ten minutes from our house. There is a white barn at Lone Pine, and the farmer sells berries and produce on a cart there. Most of the time it’s on the honor system. If you take a carton of strawberries, you put a dollar in the tin can, because there was usually no one manning the area. The farmer at Lone Pine took this same lax approach with his trees. He’d prop them up next to the barn, advertising 5, 10, or 15 dollars for his trees. My dad liked this place because it was on the way home from work, so he could just throw it in the back of the pick up. I know what else you’re thinking, and yes, he put the full price that was tagged on the tree into the tin can.
When we got lucky, Dad would drive us up the twists and turns of the hillside and find a really good tree farm. We lived out in the country, the boondocks really, and there were many tree farms near us. The hunt was a bit difficult, as we are a picky family and do not like Noble Firs. We’ve got so many ornaments that my mother has always insisted we get the bushier type, which has more branches to hang things on. Of course when we got to the tree farm, my dad would negotiate with the farmer, trying to jew the price down. This was a new phrase that I learned as a kid. Let me tell you the etymology. The term “jew down” comes from the noun Jew, and it is considered offensive, as it is based on the stereotype that Jews are stingy or miserly. If you asked my dad though, I’m pretty sure he’d just tell you that Jews are smarter than the rest of us, because if you pay full price, you’re an idiot. As a child though, I always thought the term was “chew down.” I think it was about middle school that I figured it out.
One year my dad was really dragging his heels about the whole Christmas tree thing, so my mom and us girls had to find a tree that would fit in the trunk of the car. We ended up getting one for $15 at Hi-School Pharmacy, of all places. It was probably five feet tall and we stuffed it in the back with the trunk bungeed down.
When I was 14, my dad insisted that some of the trees planted in the backyard must be ready. So my sister, being 16 and handy with a saw, went out and cut one down. The tree was very gangly, as no one had ever pruned the thing during its adolescence. There were many holes that even ornaments could not fill up. Plus, it didn’t smell right.
The best tree we ever got was the one my dad picked up on the side of the road. He surprised us one evening by dragging in a tall, bushy tree. He said that he was driving home, and he just saw the thing lying in the ditch. Must have fallen off some truck or something. He was really pleased with himself for picking up a free tree. I have to admit, it was beautiful.
I realize this story makes it sound a bit like I was a poor, underprivileged child who never got a proper Christmas tree. I assure you, we managed to get one every year. That’s sort of the tradition that I appreciate now--the challenge. It was always “what do we have to do in order to get a tree this year?” You never knew where it was going to come from, what it was going to look like, or how you’d get it home.
But man, once that tree was standing in the living room, colored lights glowing and decked out in ornaments, well, that was a feeling of satisfaction.
No comments:
Post a Comment