Oh Christmas Tree . . .

It was our first Christmas in the new Mashpee house on Route 28 and I was 12-years-old. Up till then each year my father would take us to buy a fresh cut tree at a vacant lot from a sketchy holiday hawker. Dad always made a big deal of shopping for the tree. A seeming authority asking the hawker about specific varieties like the Scotch pine, blue spruce, or balsam fir, examining the potential of each one, holding it out at arms length, turning it about like a model on a runway. Then he would ask us, “what do you think of this one?” We would check for bare spots then pick the one with the best shape and fullness and dad would strike a deal with the hawker.

Not so in 1972 when we moved to Mashpee where my dad was convinced we could forage for just about anything. In many cases he was right. Quahogs from Punkhorn Point, deer from Camp Edwards, herring from Mashpee River – but Christmas trees?!

Before we moved to the Cape we could always tell when we were getting close to Mashpee when we recognized the scrub pines on the roadside defined by delicate branches, long soft pine needles, and crooked and stunted growth. Not exactly tannenbaum material.

My older brother Steve and I were skeptical and my mom expressed herself with the same kind of “oh Russell,” she sighed when he bought a sports car that would only accommodate one of his four kids at a time. (My father’s logic often escaped my mother but the Triumph Spitfire turned out to be a true stroke of genius enabling him to get quality time with us individually. And for us kids, even a trip to the dump in the “navigator’s seat” became a much sought after privilege.)

“Humph!” my dad issued a taunt to the doubters as he handled his axe and he and young Russ, who we called Rusty back in the day, trudged off into the Mashpee River woodlands in search of the family’s holiday tree.

A short time later they returned dragging a stout scrub pine behind them. From the warmth of the dining room my mother, brothers Steve and little Robert and I observed through the sliding glass doors as dad and Rusty propped the tree up on the deck. Gripping the top dad tried to twirl it like the ones the holiday hawker sold. Spindly at the tip, wide at the bottom and bare in the midsection, the tree managed a half turn, bowed and stalled at my brother’s knees. Rusty was grinning with pride.

Steve looked sadly at the tree and shook his head, “How pathetic…”

But the pitiful tree would not be denied. As my father stoked a fire in the hearth, we decorated it gingerly draping lights and hanging ornaments the tree could barely sustain to try to achieve the holiday flair of Christmases past. My mother actually cut some branches from a tree in the yard and attached them with duct tape to fill an obvious gap. Even Steve got into the act artfully distributing the contents of a box of tinsel he claimed would hide a myriad of sins, not to mention duct tape. Finally, wrapped in tissue at the bottom of a cardboard box storing our decorations I found the star that had topped our holiday tree as long as I could remember.

“You put that on there and the whole thing is coming down,” Steve said.

He was right. We put the risky star on the mantle, plugged in the lights and stepped back to admire our work. It was no fraser fir, but the scrub pine with its delicate branches, its pungent evergreen scent, wispy needles, and duct tape experienced a metamorphosis not unlike Cinderella on her way to the ball. And so I guess, did we.

Adapting our expectations, employing vision and creativity and an appreciation for a gift from the creator, the pitiful scrub pine became a thing of beauty and a cherished family memory.

May all of you be delighted by the unexpected and experience a memorable holiday season filled with the love and joy of family and friends. Merry Christmas and happy New Year.

* Republished from December 2011