Large, multi-colored lights, strung around the perimeter of the lot, winked at us for the last mile of the ride. My sisters and I occupied both rear seats, the one facing forward, and the one facing backward, in the woody “Vista Cruiser” station wagon my mother usually piloted. On this night, as on any occasion on which my father accompanied us, she rode the passenger seat.
For many years, our girlish chests swelled as we glimpsed the large, blue and white, wooden sign announcing our arrival at “Big John’s Christmas Trees”. The only “Big John” we knew, was my father, also known as “Mistah John” and “Mistah Howl”. He allowed us our sin of pride until we were old enough to know better.
As we disembarked the Buick, clay dust rose from the bottoms of our sneakers as we raced to be the first to breach the string of lights; and the search was on.
A plumbed line of Frasier firs stretched in either direction, as far as our young eyes could see, tethered at the top with a piece of simple cotton string. Each tree stood separate, tall, and full, allowing my father to reach inside and give the trunk a turn, as my mother stood apart; arms crossed, eyes squinting. A simple wave of her hand signaled my father to turn again, and wait, while she searched for “holes”. With her “No…” we moved to the next row. In the meantime, calls of “Here! Over here!” rang out from all corners of the lot.
After mounting the carefully chosen tree in the rickety metal stand, my father left us to complete the task. My mother took her job of lighting the tree very seriously, employing a step-stool to clip bulbs to the tallest branches. When she was done, she assumed a familiar stance; arms crossed, eyes squinting, looking for “holes”, until, satisfied, she dragged large, worn, brown paper boxes into the middle of the floor signaling it was time to hang the ornaments.
“Ohh, look at this one!”
“I made this!”
“No! I made that in kindergarten, I remember! Didn’t I Mom? I made that in kindergarten, remember?”
For the next couple of weeks, I spent countless hours on a living room couch that still carried the scent of the furniture store from which it was purchased. I laid and “watched” the tree…and dreamed.
“Mom!” The word was accompanied by a tug on the end of the shirt that was hard-wired to my heart.
“Mom! When can we get a tree?”
Shrugging on my coat, I felt inside the pockets, assuring my gloves were still where I left them, and I saw dust rising under my sneakers.
Horror diverted my attention as my oldest son entered the room, wielding a small, yet toothy, saw. Reaching to retrieve it, I sent him to get his coat.
Covered, from head to toe in an assortment of colorful, warming fibers, we began our trek. The woods behind our little farmhouse offered an assortment of acceptable firs. One year we found a perfectly shaped, five-foot scotch pine. The next, we settled for a scraggly cedar. And, then there was the year of the table tree; as we decorated, Snoopy played piano inside my head.
For the last ten years, the day after Thanksgiving has been set aside for Christmas decorating.
We roll to a stop in a parking place in front of a big-box hardware store that offers trimming and bagging at no extra charge. Tying our jackets about our waists, we head towards a pile of meshed Frasier firs in our shirt-sleeves. We stand them. We twirl them. We look for “holes”, with eyes wide open. The orange-aproned employee mounts our selection atop my car, securing it with bungee cord I provide.
A single-construction plastic stand screws on in minutes, and the tree is placed in front of the living room window. Carols, old and new, flow from wall mounted speakers as we begin decorating. Twenty minutes, and two boxes of ornaments later, the sound of a video game wafts in from the next room, and I realize I am hanging ornaments, alone.
And I remember; “Big John’s”, squinting eyes, sibling rivalry, “watching” the tree, tugging children, toothy saws, table trees, and Snoopy’s music.
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Are We There Yet? 
