Christmas Trees

For all the worry, our cobbled together family started well. Every weekend, my sons and I went out to Cindy's house, with its creek, hillside of brambles, a massive hemlock tree, and across the county road, woods, and a maze of abandoned Christmas trees smothered in honeysuckle. The boys, Peter, 13, Ian, 12, and Brendan, 9, built forts in the woods, dammed up the creek, and chased our dog, Marley, through the house. Steven, Cindy's son 5, wanted to be in their mayhem, but they weren't sure about Steven. He cried a lot. Cindy's cat, Cody, hid in the closet.

Our boys were screaming and laughing outside as we planned our June wedding, something that didn’t please Cindy's parents. I was thirteen years older, twice divorced, didn't attend church, and even had a grown daughter, Amy, whom they had never met. In their mind, I was no match for Cindy's ex-husband.

Her house was once quiet. Shoes sat neatly at the door. Drawers were firmly closed, and the floor gleamed. My hooligans shattered that. They threw clothes like confetti, slammed screen doors, raced screaming through the house, and built a tree house in the apple tree.

Cindy and I drove to Montreal for our honeymoon. Steven stayed with family, and my boys went to their mother, but once the honeymoon was over, Steven came home and my boys showed up to argue about which fort in the woods was whose.

My boys split their time between me and their mom, spending weekends at one, living at the other, and then switching every few months. I couldn't risk failure. We once had a big house in the country with a barn, chickens, a creek, and ducks. The kids loved it, and I hoped they'd love their new home as well. I adjusted our budget, rented an excavator, dug a pond, and bought ducks, but that didn't stop my worry.

The fall came, and my boys switched to living with us for three months. Brady, a friend of the boys, visited that first weekend. Cindy and I were rearranging bunk beds. The boys were playing outside.

Unexpectedly, Brendan showed up. 

"What's up? 

"Nothing, nothing!" 

Brendan sat unusually quiet on the window sill. I heard an ominous roar and then pushed past Brendan to see the hill in flames; smoke billowed up a few feet and then were swept by the wind in a massive horizontal river. Vague figures flailed in the smoke. Cindy called the fire department while I ran to get the boys. Two fire engines later, we took Brady home, crying sooty tears.

A few weeks later, Marly, our Gnarly Marly, died, barely three. We cried at the vet, cried at the house, and cried when we buried him on the hill. A red granite boulder became his headstone. Two weeks later, we picked up Maggie, a golden retriever pup, and soon after, Jake, an amiable dog pound waif. There was little time to breath and not enough arms to hold things in place.

I could barely sleep. My mind churned possibilities until I found a perfect solution to keeping my boys happy, something glorious, something the kids would love, an arched bridge over our creek. Each evening after work, I measured, sawed, and nailed the rough oak lumber. Cindy and the boys, trailing puppies, ducks, and goats, came to admire my work as I nailed the last board.

By Thanksgiving, money was short, toys scattered, school books littered the dining room, makeshift tents occupied every room, and primitive forts lurked in the woods. We sorted through clothes, "This stays, and these will hold you for the week." They were headed to their mom for the Thanksgiving break.

"Can we go now?"

"You could help pack."

"Mom would do it for us."

As soon as my boys left, Steven announced, "Santa's already in Florida, Dad told me." He was going to Florida at Christmas, but Steven couldn't find anything to do. There were phone calls and a ten-hour drive to Atlanta for a handoff in a parking lot. Back home, we poured a glass of wine and sat down in a silent house. Cody came out of the closet, hopped on the sofa, and fell asleep. 

The next morning, as we were drinking coffee, the phone rang.

"Dad, there's nothing to do here. I want to work on my fort."

I glanced at Cindy and then took a breath. "I'll pick you up. I can make Russian tea."

The following week, the week began with screeching about lost deodorant and combs. Cody returned to the closet, and cereal wars escalated over who could have the last bowl of Fruit Loops and who was stuck with Raisin Bran. The school bus left before we found their shoe.

Monday, after school, a skirmish in aisle seven at Food Lion continued into the van. The boys settled on individual boxes of cereal clutched tightly to their chests, eyeing each other's boxes with envy. A massive bag of Family O's was available in case they ran out during the week, and Raisin Bran was always available.

I obsessed on a new budget as Cindy begged me to relax. One afternoon, Cindy dragged me, under protest, to the pond with a cup of grain. Our ducks circled, quacking, gobbling grain, and avoiding the honking geese. We walked to the abandoned Christmas tree farm bent under the weight of suffocating honeysuckle, a glaring failure of dreams.

"God, what a mess," I said.

"Don't look."

Back in the house, Cindy handed me a cup of tea, pulled out a book, sat beside me, and began reading aloud from where we left the night before. Every so often, I heard a thump upstairs. My eyes jerked to the ceiling. Furniture was moving, and who knows what else.

I interrupted Cindy. "Maybe we should build an addition, one more bedroom, possibly two."

"Stop obsessing on the children; listen to the story; we are at the good part; Little Tree is talking about water."

"I think I'll put a swing in the apple tree. That might give them something to do, keep them away from matches and the cat."

"Don't think about everything you need to do." Her grip on my knee increased.

"Sip your tea, listen to the story, and relax."

Out the window, toys were rusting, and ducks were working the edge of the pond, destroying newly sown wild rice.

"One of the trees across the road could be our Christmas tree and save us $20."

Cindy put down the book, "Go over there if you have to. Get out of here. I am tired of listening to you."

I grabbed a brush hook. Boys followed, trailing puppies and goats. Across the road, we disappeared into the thicket. Honeysuckle climbed the larger trees, lay in blankets over rows of smaller trees, and snared our feet. Rabbit and deer trails threaded through the underbrush. Boys, dogs, and goats ran the narrow paths, barking, bleating, yelling, and laughing. I swung my brush hook with all the kinetic energy I could muster, and over the next hour, I defeated rosebushes until I was exhausted.

We came home with a ten-foot tree on our shoulders. The boys reported plans for a new fort. There were injuries and pain, but wiped away with laughter as if they were nothing.

Cindy and I unpacked boxes of antique glass balls, gold garland, and silver ornaments, my collection of years, things begging for a new chance at life. Sipping Russian tea and eating cookies, we trimmed the tree. Soup was on the stove, but peace didn't last long. Our boys flailed each other with pillows and teased the puppies into a frenzy. 

The next day, Cindy made large red bows and sent me into the fading light to tie them to the bridge. From the creek, the windows of our house glowed yellow. Cindy was probably fixing supper, and even though our tree was magnificent, I was painfully aware of being a dollar short, a day late, and at risk of ruin.

Brendan pounced when I returned to the house,"Mom says you're spending all your money on Cindy, and we'll have a little Christmas like last year, when you forgot which presents were whose."

"Christmas is in your heart, not packages. We'll work on having a good Christmas." I knew we didn't have enough for a real Christmas.

Brendan crossed his arms and pressed his chin into his chest. Cindy raced into the living room, pulled Brendan to his feet, then pushed him towards the door. "Run. Get away before your father starts another Christmas speech."

I stewed over my desperation, lack of joy, and absence of laughter. 

That next week, Cindy baked cookies, and the boys strung lights all over their bedrooms as I prepared secret budgets. The Christmas lists grew, and the ghost of Christmas Present, clothed in lists and totals, haunted my dreams.

Every evening, Brendan pleaded for a go-cart. "I'll pay half. I have $50 saved already. You could help me raise bees and sell honey. I'll do anything. A go-cart is the only thing I want."

As I lay awake most nights, Cindy rubbed my back, but it was impossible for me to sleep.

One night, when I was particularly agitated, she said, "You keep remembering your childhood."

"I'm sorry I'm crabby," came my answer.

Each day arrived, but by evening, we were tired.

Brendan always asked the hard questions."Dad, were you rich when you were little?"

"We were not super rich, but we had more than most. Each Christmas, I received one big present, then a few little presents. My mother gave me clothes or something practical, but my father gave me the stuff I enjoyed: wind-up tin toys and silly things. Even my first Christmas home from college, I opened another wind-up toy."

I didn't share a darker ghost: my mother's days of agitation, complaining, and accusing us of leaving her out.

One year, when I was eleven, she wanted a necklace, but I had saved for months to buy a manicure set with a red leather case. Once opened, she put the case back under the tree." That's nice. Now let me see, which one of these has my gold necklace?"

As with every year, my father made it work."Oh, that must be the present he left in my office.” The next day, my father rushed me to Taliaferro Jewelers for a $200 gold necklace. 

Each Christmas, I gave my father a tie. He would wink, "The best one yet, I'll wear it to court." My father died during my sophomore year in college.

Christmas was draped with my mother's gold necklace, jangling cash registers, lists, and broken promises. I snarled endlessly.

I growled at the boys, "You don't appreciate anything. Just put out a little effort. We decorated the tree, made lists, lit candles, fixed Russian tea, and baked cookies. You throw wet towels on the floor and track mud into the house." 

Exasperated, Cindy banished me from the house. The boys cheered. They gathered in the kitchen to bake more cookies. I grabbed a brush hook and headed to the Christmas trees with no purpose other than the pleasure of defeating rose bushes and honeysuckle. The dogs were afraid to follow.

I pushed into the tangle. I hacked one path, then two. Each swing, each burst of wood chips felt great. At last, something worked as planned. 

Each evening after work, I swung the brush hook until I was too tired for anything other than bed, oblivious to smells from the kitchen or Cindy at the piano. I had no idea where the boys were.

It was obvious nothing was getting done. Taking my frustration out on the thicket couldn't go on. There were presents and budgets. We had a free tree, and I should have been happy. 

At work, I described our massive tree, and someone said, "I wish we could find a cheap tree."

"I can get you one."

At home, I calculated there were over a thousand trees trapped in the thickets, and with luck, I might get to fifty or more. I reworked our budget and painted a plywood sign: Christmas Trees $7.75.

Each evening, the paths grew and finally became wide enough for our small antique tractor, a birthday present from Cindy. I squeezed mowing between work and darkness. Curses, bruises, and gashes measured my progress. A hidden stump put the mower out of business for two days. A rose sent blood down my neck, and one cut deep into the side of my nose. Blisters grew into pillows.

Interrupted by the first few customers, I charged back into the thicket to broaden paths, cutting paths deeper and deeper into the jungle.  

One Saturday, Cindy rounded up the boys by bribing them with cookies. In the woods, beyond the house, they pulled grape vines. From across the road, I heard yelling and laughing. Puppies barked, and tree limbs cracked. I saw them dragging vines to the house. They worked in the sideyard, twisting the vines into a massive circle, tendrils curling like ribbon. They threaded it with white Christmas lights and added a two-foot red bow. 

Cindy badgered me into getting off the tractor and leaning a ladder against the house. She handed me a nail and a hammer. With the nail in place, I groaned and tugged the wreath up the ladder. Almost as tall as me, the wreath had to be hefted over my head and tied on the nail. I climbed out from under it and then down the ladder.

A van with a couple and five children arrived across the road. Our boys grabbed cups of grain and handed them to the children as goats and ducks shoved and pushed for treats. Geese honked. Ducks scurried to avoid being pecked. Puppies ran between the legs of giggling children. The couple laughed about how they couldn't get their children back into the van. 

As they were preparing to leave, someone said, "Look, how beautiful." Across the road, beyond our pond and bridge, in the last evening light was our house, candles flickering in the windows and a giant Christmas wreath glowing on the side.

Customers came with stories. One woman beamed as her young son pulled her towards the car. "It's hard being a single parent." She staggered as he pulled her off balance.

The little boy whined, "Let's go," the words squirmed into a screech. 

"My son's four. There wasn't money, but I could find $7.75. Christmas would be awful with no tree and only our few little presents." Her car disappeared over the hill, a tree tied to the top, faint blue smoke left behind.

Old people came for small trees, couples for a second tree.

"The kids wanted their own tree, but who has an extra $25?" one mother said.

Our four boys watched for customers, carried saws, and showed off squirming puppies. From the trees, I could see Cindy decorating the porch, carrying groceries, and taking out the trash. She brought over hot coffee and welcomed me home each evening.

At supper, I rolled off stories of customers like the ironworker walking with a slight limp. As his six kids ran through the trees, he pulled up his pants leg to show me the purple and pink scars where a steel girder crushed his leg three years earlier. 

Small drooped twigs appeared in our living room, nailed upright on a board, weighed down under a ball or even two. "We have our own trees. Look at Ian's; he made a paper chain."

Almost every evening, a blowing horn signaled my last desperate bites of food, and then I grabbed the saw. I didn't take sides when couples disagreed or thrashed out other issues while the goats waited for grain. I even used a flashlight to pick the right tree for a customer who apologized for getting me out of bed. "We are so sorry, but this is our only chance. Walter says he's too old for a tree, but I insisted."

We picked up Steven in Tennessee. Friday before Christmas, I made a mad dash for presents. Ian wanted a skateboard, rollerblades, and tons of candy. Peter wanted music, Nirvana, and money. Ben wanted a snowboard, a speedometer for his bicycle, and skates. He said he could pay for the go-cart after he started his rabbit business. Steven wanted toys, any toy, all toys. We sold the last tree the day before Christmas but in the end, the money wasn't necessary.

On Christmas Eve, my hand-lettered sign went down as a launching pad. Cindy stood on the hilltop with the dogs at her feet as I knelt to light a fuse to our first annual Christmas fireworks display. In the burst of light, our sons' faces lit up against the shadows, each holding a rocket or mortar in red tissue paper, fuses ready, waiting their turn.