Decoy Pickle: A Secret Christmas Plan

On Christmas morning, my sister and I wake up and rush to the tree to look for a glass pickle. Weird, I know right? This is how it works: my mom hides a green pickle ornament on the tree on Christmas day, and then she releases Jess and I from our racehorse chutes to go find it. If you find the pickle ornament, then you get an extra present, referred to as "the pickle present."

Only this actually caused some tears and fighting in the past, so the pickle present is actually a family gift (like a movie or board game for everyone), but the winner gets to unwrap the present. Jess and I mostly like the satisfaction of winning. She has found that stupid pickle for at least two years in a row now, and it is quite a let down for me and my 20/20 vision. Jess has contacts/glasses, so how she manages to spot that hidden ornament is beyond me. But I've got a secret plan this year.

I can write about all my secret plans concerning my sister on this blog, because she never reads it. So this is what I am going to do: I am going to go to the dollar tree and buy a decoy pickle ornament (I saw them there last week). Then what I will do is sneak over to the tree on Christmas Eve and place the decoy pickle in a more noticeable location. My hope is that in the morning Jess will spot the fake ornament first and get excited about winning, and this will buy me buy me some more time looking for the actual pickle. She'll be doing her victory dance until she realizes that I am still frantically searching the branches and that what she is holding in her hands is some cheap, plastic imitation of the real thing. Sucker.

 If you are wondering why in the world my mother decided to start this tradition, it's because she was in a shop in her German-themed hometown looking at ornaments and found the pickle hanging there with the explanation attached. Apparently this whole pickle thing is a German tradition. The pickle is supposed to bring good luck and was the last ornament placed on the Christmas tree. On Christmas morning the first child to find the pickle was rewarded with an extra little gift left by St. Nicholas. This German tradition encouraged the children to appreciate all the ornaments on the Christmas tree, rather than hurrying to see what St. Nick had left for them. This tradition encourages my sister and I to shuffle through all the branches in a mad hurry, not caring about any ornament unless it's green. We do plenty of ornament appreciation while we unpack them one by one and hang them on the tree.

Travis, my sister's husband, sits this tradition out. He is totally allowed to participate but chooses not to, probably because he doesn't want to get in the way of my and Jessy's elbows. I admit, the first year he spent Christmas with us, I was worried. I thought he and Jess would tag team me and find the pickle and both gloat over it. But Travis knows to stay outta my way when it comes to hunting for hidden objects. But this decoy pickle idea I have, I think it's going to work. I'll let you know what happens.

Agreeing on what lies to tell your children

The month of December poses an important question to all new parents: what lies should we tell our child? Husbands and wives debate over whether or not they should begin telling the tale of Santa Claus, explaining that an overweight old man in a red suit will be coming down the chimney at night time, but don't worry about it, he's not going to rob us or kidnap you, he's here to leave you presents. Unless of course, you've been a bad kid, in which case Santa WILL kidnap you, fly you to the North Pole, give you a pair of plastic elf ears to wear, and force you to assemble toys for the good little boys and girls. That'll teach you not to flip off your 4th grade teacher when she is trying to teach you earth science.

Don't get me wrong. I adore Santa. My mother fully had to sit me down at age 11 and a half and explain how everything really worked. We had this talk during the summer, because she wanted to give me six months to get over it. But like Britney from Glee, I still believe in Santa (a theory of mine which I have researched and written about). So yes, when I have kids, they will fully be told the story of Santa Claus. But the real story, the one about how other countries have gnomes who live under the floor boards and kind babushkas who bring them presents.

But then you think, how far will you take this? Are you going to push the Easter Bunny? Explain that a rabbit lays plastic eggs for you to find? That they are filled with jelly beans? Because I mean, a large portion of American teens already don't understand that milk comes from cows, not from a carton, and that cows have to have babies first in order to give milk, they don't just splurt it out because you're about to eat an Oreo. Why don't we go ahead and tell children that rabbits bring easter eggs, so that way when the kids hit 5th grade and are learning about the animal kingdom, they can keep thinking that a rabbit belongs to class aves or class reptilia because it lays eggs.

Or maybe your beef is with the tooth fairy. Nothing says whimsical magic like a little creature breaking into your house while you're asleep to collect your teeth for a necklace or some other tribal-like piece of jewelry. Why don't we just leave vials of blood as well, so the fairy can have complete DNA and identification records of us? Is that little pixie working for the Human Genome Project? Or maybe the FBI?

 The problem with choosing lies to tell your offspring is that you have to count on teachers, other parents, and teenagers to endorse your lie. Because you should fight tooth and nail for what you believe in, and if some kid with a grinchy dad tells your seven year old son that Santa doesn't exist, you need to be able to pull out the maps and star charts and cultural traditions to back up the probability that Santa can indeed hit all the houses in one night.

Personally, I am thinking of developing my own little fantasy character or yearly tradition. Like maybe I'll invent a birthday stork named Saint Ork (abbreviated of course to St. Ork), who brings you an extra present on your birthday. Each kid has their own birthday stork, and it's the same one that delivered the child to the mother in the hospital. So once a year the stork returns to see how the child is doing, and to see if the parents are still fit to have custody of the child. If the kid has really crappy parents, then Saint Ork will let you crawl into a fuzzy blanket and he will carry you off to a different mommy and daddy. All of the workers at DHS work for St. Ork. Every year your extra present will be wrapped in a blanket and be sitting outside on your doorstep. This bird is not here to sneak into your house or steal your molars. He understands the laws about breaking and entering and robbery. And if you want to special request a certain gift, what you do is write a letter and put it outside in the bird feeder for pick up. This makes total sense. I am going to write a children's book on this. Anyone want be my illustrator? Who's with me? What parents are going to agree on telling this lie?

She will endure hot wax and a rash for the Lord, a church Christmas tradition

If you were ever a little girl growing up in church during Christmas time, there is a chance that you were chosen to wear an itchy red polyester dress and walk down the aisle with a fiery white torch to light the advent candle. Today in church I sat back and reminisced as one of the fourth grade girls brought forth that little flickering light to front of the sanctuary. It took her about five seconds for each step. One might think that three minutes is too long to take to travel from the back of the room to the front of the room, but if you've ever been a candle lighter, you know that it's not.

Here's how it works: an elementary age girl is chosen to light the wreath for the week. I don't know why it's a girl, but that's all I've ever seen. It's probably because they look better with curled hair and dresses than boys do. The joy of Christmas just walks right with them, as they tread forward in their black Mary Jane shoes that might have a centimeter of a heel.

All little girls want to get chosen to light the advent candle, even the shy ones. When you get picked, it's an honor. Getting selected for advent lighting is just a few years away from scoring the role of Mary in the nativity play. You spend the whole next week trying on your Christmas dress and standing in front of the mirror.

When the day finally arrives, your mother curls or braids your hair, you put on that lovely crimson dress that is actually a little bit itchy around the neck, but you endure it. You are willing to suffer a polyester-blend induced rash if it means you get to carry the candle down the aisle.

A little bit before your duty arises, an adult will light your candle. Your eyes take in the magnificent glow and something like bells jingle in your stomach. But then the pastor or whomever talking about the meaning of advent takes too long. He goes off on a long explanation, leaving you in the back with a candle that's already been burning for five minutes. Five minutes time means the wax is now hot and ready to drip down that flimsy paper base and onto your little fingers.

There are two great fears of candle lighters, one being getting burned by dripping hot wax, and the second being that your candle will go out before you complete your task. The reason little girls walk so slowly down the aisle is because their eyes are pinpointing that hot blob of wax that is threatening to slide off the candle and onto their hand. Girls have to walk slowly so that the speed of their travel does not cause their taffeta skirt to create a gush of wind and extinguish the flame they are carrying. Between these two fears, most girls would probably rather get burned with a drop of hot wax than suffer the embarrassment of having a prematurely extinguished candle at the time they get to the front. Because that basically means God has chosen to snuff out your light, since you are unfit to carry it.*

Yes, lighting the candles of the advent wreath is a really big deal to little girls, and the responsibilities are monumental. After your duty is done, you have to be sure to blow out your lighting candle in a very safe and non smokey way, so that the babies sitting in the fourth row won't suffer from smoke inhalation.


When that little girl from today made it to my children's church room ten minutes later, I made sure to complement her on her dress and the excellence in which she executed the lighting of the candles. She needed to know I recognized its difficulty and admired her duty.

Readers, have any of you been little girls (or boys!) who have had the privilege of lighting the advent wreath at church? How was your experience? Do you have burn marks on your hands?

*I hope you don't think I am serious. If the candle goes out, it does not mean God thinks you are unfit to light the wreath. I may have thought this as a child, but it is absolutely not true, and I have yet to ever see a candle go out prior to advent lighting. 

Christmas Tree Acquisition

Before you read this post, you really should read this one. It will help you understand everything much better.

Part of today’s post is really epic, but we have to get through all the back story first. If you are really impatient and just want to get to the adventure part, then scroll through until you find the heading EPIC STORY.

So last Saturday, December 18^th, I found out that my parents still hadn’t gotten a tree. I wasn’t surprised, based on the fact that my dad really dislikes putting the effort in to get a tree to the living room. My sister called me, and we did a whole 4-way conference call and had everybody in the family chatting about the situation. Well, except for Travis. But he doesn’t count since he’s a fake brother. My sister said that maybe on Sunday she and Travis could drop a tree off on their way to a Christmas party. But we talked more and Dad said he’d get one somewhere. You know, considering the neighbors right across from my parents have a field full of Christmas trees.

Then Monday rolls around. My mom calls me and tells me that neither Jess and Travis nor I will be sleeping in the spare bed on Christmas Eve. You’d know what a big deal this is if you had read this post. She also informs me that they still don’t have a Christmas tree, and won’t be getting one either.

I’m kind of like “Okay, what’s happening?”

What happened was my parents spent about five hours at the doctor’s/hospital because my dad dropped a giant sheet of metal on his foot at work. And now his left foot is in a cast up to his knee, and he’s on crutches. Thus, he can’t do any heavy lifting.

The reason nobody can sleep in the spare bed is because all that is in that bedroom is the bed frame, since the mattress is still at our old house. And my dad won’t be going to the old house to lift the mattress into his pick up, on account of how he’s playing Tiny Tim on crutches for Christmas this year. He can’t get a tree either, since he’s all incapacitated.

I sort of had a feeling both of these things might happen. I was gonna have to sleep on the floor anyway, so I’m sort of glad Jess and Travis don’t get the bed now anyway. Equality is better. But the tree thing is sad. How can we have Christmas without a tree? What are we going to put the presents under? A twig? Jess and I have each managed to get trees put up in our respective houses, but to spend Christmas Day in a house without a tree? That’s just pathetic.

So Jess calls me Wednesday at eight in the evening. We talk about how we are going to get a tree. We’re both supposed to be at my parent’s house at four on Thursday, because some of our relatives that we never see are going to be there. Only Jess works till four-thirty. She wants to know if we should get a tree tonight and put it in Travis’ pick-up which she will then drive to work and then to our parents. Or should she drive the pick up to work and then I can help her get a tree at four-thirty when she’s done with work? Only then I’ll have to rudely leave the relatives to help her. We also aren’t sure if our parents are planning on reimbursing us for this tree or what. So we conference call them. We have another four-way conversation. I won’t share all the details but a lot went down, including some whining.

Basically, my dad (who claimed he was drug free and not on Vicodin anymore) said that we had two brains and we needed to figure it out. He’d pay ten bucks for a tree, not a cent more. Me and Jess tell them “it’ll be a mystery tomorrow whether or not we arrive with a tree” and hang up. Then Jess calls just me back and says let’s go look for a tree right now, even though it’s 8:42 and totally dark outside. So I put on my boots and wait by my front door for her to pick me up, because we live only two blocks away from each other.

EPIC STORY STARTS HERE

Jess arrives driving Travis’ pick-up. I ask her if she brought a flash light, because how are we going to find a good tree in the dark? She doesn’t have one, and neither do I, so we leave without one.

We’re driving down Lancaster and I’m like “The Church of the Nazarene used to have some trees.” And Jess says she saw a place down State Street. So we head down Lancaster first, and we pull into this practically barren lot. It’s all fenced in and there are two trees sitting there, along with a trailer. The light in the trailer is off and I’m guessing no one is there. We stare at the two trees on the opposite side of the fence. I spy a piece of paper tacked to the post.

“Let’s get out and see if that’s a sign,” I say. We jump out and find that the floppy sign (written on notebook paper with poor penmanship) says Free Trees. Well, it’s perfect, of course. Free is much better than ten bucks. The only problem is that the trees are fenced in. Jess tries to lean over and lift the tree up over the top of the fence, but it’s too heavy.

“We need somebody on the other side,” I say, and stare at her, because I don’t want to be the one who has to do it. “The gate is padlocked but I bet you could just climb over.”

So what does my sister do? She goes to the gate and fits herself through one of the slats. Then she goes to the tree and hoists it by the base and heaves it over the five foot fence. I catch it and drag it over. The truck is still running in the parking lot, it’s completely dark, and right now we’re nabbing a free tree from a fenced in field. I pray that no one thinks were criminals, because the sign fully said free trees. Like someone is going to stand around wasting their time just to sell the last two trees.

I start to drag the tree to the truck, and Jess squeezes herself back through the fence and helps me stuff it into the back of the pick up bed. The whole tree acquisition deal takes about five minutes total. We’re in the truck driving back to my house, and Jess tells me to call Mom and tell her we got a tree. I ask Jess wouldn’t it be better if we just surprised them tomorrow? And then we could tell them in person the whole story of how we nabbed a free tree in the dark from over a fence? So even though we are excited, we decide to wait and share the story the next day.

Jess drops me off at my house but calls me about fifteen minutes later.

“Yes?” I say.

“We could tell Mom and Dad the tree cost us ten bucks.”

I laugh, because she is totally like Dad. Out to make a profit. Our tree was free, but we could each make five bucks if we make Dad pay for it.

“If we do that,” I say “then we couldn’t tell them the true story of how we snagged a free one at night.” We weigh our options and decide that it’s worth five bucks to tell our parents the story about how we saved Christmas and brought them a tree.

Christmas Traditions: Waiting for Santa

Your opinion of my grasp on reality may change after reading this story. But I will be honest with you. I believed in Santa Claus until almost age 12. My mother had to break it to me in May of 1998, a good seven months before Christmas. I cried. You see, I’m A Believer. In a sense, I still am. Read about my Santa Claus Theory towards the bottom of the page here.

When I was a kid, I wrote very nice letters to Santa. I would ask about Mrs. Claus and the reindeer, and I would wish them well. I’d ask Saint Nick how his summer had been. I’d write and tell him what kind of cookie I planned on leaving next to the tree. I’d give him three options of gifts I wanted.

Santa wrote me back twice. The postmark said it was mailed from North Pole, Alaska, which is an actual place. I took my letters to Co-op (which is this once a week thing for home school kids so they can learn to be social) to prove to my older sister’s friend that Santa really does exist. She tried to tell me it wasn’t real, but I had proof. That letter in my hand was like the Bible. Written evidence. I bet if I dug around in an old shoe box I have, I could find the letter. Pretty sure I kept it.

So when I was eleven, I sort of started to think maybe there wasn’t a Santa, because my mom would say things like “he exists for those who believe in him.” And I learned early on that all those fake Santas at the mall are actual employees of Kris Kringle who go and listen to the children, because there’s no possible way Santa can be at so many malls in December when he’s got to run things back at his shop.

And okay, maybe I should tell you the whole story. The day of dashed hope was May 12, 1998, because May 12^th is my half-birthday. I was exactly 11 and a half years old, and my mom thought this was too old to believe. So she sat me down in this chair and held me and started the whole thing off with “You’re getting older…you’re growing up…blah blah blah….Santa isn’t real.” And then she gave me this tiny green notebook that is attached to a leather cord so you can wear it around your neck. I still have it. It was my consolation prize. Hardly worth it.

Part of the reason I didn’t want to say that I didn’t believe was because then I would stop getting my present from Santa. So you know what my mom did after she burst the news? That year I got my present from my parents and a Santa present. Because I was all “if you hadn’t ruined it for me, I would still believe, and I would still get a present from Santa.” So my mom bought me presents from Santa all the way through college.

But let’s regress back to middle school. That’s when Santa tripped the alarm in our house. My sister and I were snuggled in my bed together. This is back when we each had our own bed at our old house, but as was tradition, we snuggled in together on Christmas Eve. So there we are, sleeping, when we hear this alarm sounding. Of course we both wake up. It’s like 5:36 in the morning. I say “guess Santa’s here.” I’m 13, my sister’s 14, and we creep out of my bed and sneak into the hallway. At our old house, we had a family room and a living room. The dining room separated the two. The tree was always put in the living room because it is the front room of the house, and it has an actual fire place and mantle. My sister and I creep out into the family room, and we peek our heads over the half wall to scan through the dining room and to see what is happening. 

My mom is rushing out of her bedroom in her pajamas, going to punch the alarm code in to make it stop. What happened was, it was a windy night and the power had gone out while we were sleeping, but when it turned back on, this re-set the alarm and made it go off. Since everybody was already awake, we decided to start Christmas morning right then and open presents, though we all took naps around noon.

But me? I’m certain Santa was up our chimney just as mom was punching in that alarm code. He had to leave lickety split because our house wasn’t safe. He does exist.

Christmas Traditions: Counting Down

When I was a child, there was only one thing that would motivate me to get out of bed and leave my warm flannel sheets on a cold, frosty December morning: a four inch cloth bear.

If you read my post about the nativity set, which describes how my sister and I would race to find baby Jesus, then it probably won’t come as a surprise to you that we would race to do other Christmas related activities.

When my sister and I were both infantile, my mother sewed up this large hang-over-the door cloth advent calendar. It features a three story house (plus attic) and shows the inside of all the rooms. This house belongs to a family of bears. The title of this advent calendar is “A Beary Merry Christmas.” Beneath the large bear house is a grid of days, which is labeled “Decembear.” On each day, it lists where the bear looked for Christmas. For example, on day one, he might look inside the mailbox. On day two, he looked in the bed room, on day three, he checked behind the clock, etc. The very best part of this calendar is that you get to move one of the bears around and make him look in all these places for Christmas. This is what motivated my sister Jess and me to get our butts out of bed. We would wake up at the crack of dawn so we could race to the living room and move the little bear.

As you may imagine, this created some fights. We shared a bedroom and thus we were highly aware of when the other person woke up. We’d do things like body slam each other, or lock each other in, or slide across the wooden floors in order to get there faster. All in the name of Christmas, of course. What might happen is Jess would get there first and move the little bear to check in the attic or whatever, and then put it on day seven. Then right in front of her eyes, I would rip the bear off and make him check the attic again (just to be sure), and replace him on day seven.

When my mother discovered our antics, she suggested we take turns. Jess would do things like try to trick me into thinking my day was yesterday, and her day was today, even though she had fully moved the bear the day before. She did this because I was littler and quite impressionable. I wised up though, over the years. I remember when I was about nine; Jess and I were deciding who would go first. I nicely told her she could start on day one. This of course meant I had all the even days. The calendar ends on Christmas Eve, which of course is the 24^th, and an even number. I had cleverly calculated it out so that I would get to make the little bear find Christmas. My victory was sweet that day, when she realized what had happened. With much satisfaction I moved the bear to the remaining spot. To this day, I am more of a planner than my sister.

Even through high school, we were dedicated to moving that bear along and making him search the house for Christmas. We might have forgotten to do it every day, and he’d have to search four places in a row, but he still did it. When I moved away to college, my mom put up the bear calendar, but of course she forgot to move it. When I got home on Christmas break, it was still stuck on day five. 

Last year the advent calendar moved into my possession. Again, it was one of those things that both my sister and I wanted, so we agreed on joint custody, but Jess said I could have it first. This is my second year with it, and Jess has not yet been over to my house to notice. It’s hanging up on the coat closet door in my living room, and I move the little bear every day.

Today is day 15, and the bear looked in a trunk in the attic.  

Check back Sunday evening for another tradition which involves cousins and torture.

Christmas Traditions: The Nativity

Once a year my sister and I would race to find our Lord and Savior. Many people spend their entire lives searching for God, but I always knew where to find him: wrapped in newspaper and nestled in a cardboard two-gallon evaporated milk box.

The nativity set that my family has is very special because it was hand crafted by my great-grandparents. My great-grandpa sawed out and stained the barn, and my great-grandma cast the figurines that are all white, which also sort of have that rainbow oil color over them. There are three camels and wise men, two shepherds, sheep, cows, Mary, Joseph, and of course baby Jesus in his manger. These fragile pieces are wrapped tightly up in newspaper and tissue paper and stored in a cardboard box.

The day that my sister and I got to set up the nativity set was also the day the Lord chose one of us to be his favorite for the year. See, we would race to be the one who got to unwrap baby Jesus. For some reason, we felt really special discovering him all nestled up in that ancient newsprint. We always knew to look for the tiniest bundle. The other figurines about his size were the sheep. Unwrapping the sheep was also a favorite, because they were so cute. My sister and I could care less about finding the shepherds or the cows. Baby Jesus and the sheep were typically tucked into the bottom of the box, so we had to unwrap everything else first.

In December, my mom would take the old cardboard box down from the shelf in the pantry, and she would assemble the three piece barn for us. She would tell us to be very careful with the figurines because she didn’t want them broken. You’d think in our yearly races to find Christ, we would have dropped a camel or a shepherd on its head or something, but my sister and I were both speedy and careful. No piece has ever been injured.

After the initial set up of the set, (which took much discussion as we had to determine the best possible placement), my sister and I would secretly move the pieces around about every other day. I really liked it when there was a sheep on each side of the manger (symmetry, hello). My sister liked it when the two of them were nestled together. I might move the camels so that they were all in a row walking towards the barn, but Jess liked it when the wise men were standing next to their steed. I think my mother had her own opinion and would move them as well.

Another thing we had to do about every year was re-glitter the star, which typically hung rather crookedly over the barn. We tried to keep it gold, but then we ran out of gold glitter and made the star red and green instead. I’m pretty sure it’s been stuck like that for the past 11 years.

During Christmas break my freshman year of college, I set up the nativity alone. It was kind of sad to do without my sister there to race me. Yes, I found Jesus, but it wasn’t quite the same. When Jess and I stopped in mid-December the next year, we were both appalled to discover that my mother had set up the nativity herself. She told us that we had waited too long to visit, and that she wanted to enjoy the set during the whole month. We told her that setting up the nativity was our job, and didn’t she understand the childhood nostalgia we indulged in every year when we unpacked it?

This may look unimportant to you, but it means everything to me.

I have my own nativity scene now, but it is not the same. It’s made out of corn husks and it was given to my mom by her aunt. When my mom was offering it to my sister and I after we moved out, Jess and I both wanted it. We agreed that we would share it joint custody, and we’d take turns every other year. I’ve had it for the past three years, because she’s never remembered to ask for it. Plus, I don’t think she ever will, on account of how she and her husband received a really neat nativity set crafted out of newspapers that someone bought for them at Ten Thousand Villages. The disappointing part about my corn husk nativity is that all the pieces are affixed to the floor of the barn, so you can’t have the joy of rearranging them. Plus, no camels. 

Did you already read Christmas Traditions: The Tree ? Because it was a little bit funny and mostly like "Wow. Your family is cool."

Check back Wednesday for the next family tradition that I will share.

Christmas Traditions: The Tree

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.