The Biggest Christmas Tree on the Block; or Season’s Greetings

         First, you must know this about my father: he liked things big. The bigger, the better. For him, the value of an object was directly related to its size. He drank his beer from quart bottles; he drove the largest car the finance company would allow him to buy; he made sure we had in our living room a couch on which six people could comfortably sit.  Above the couch hung a huge gilt-framed mirror that was big enough to reflect nearly your whole height when you stood across the room from it. He not only brought home the first television on our block, but he also brought home what remained the largest television on our block for several years.  The screen was not large by today's standards--21 inches--but the cabinet would still fill many a modest living room.  It was a large wooden affair with hinged doors that closed over the screen when viewing was over to allow the television to disguise itself as an old-fashioned large china cabinet or sideboard.  Needless to say, these doors were seldom shut.  Whereas most people we knew placed an antenna, called rabbit ears, on top of their TV’s to receive any signal available, my father was not satisfied with such a paltry and ugly antenna. He mounted a grand outdoor antenna on the roof of the house; it resembled a hulking hydro tower. Inside the house, a small control box rested discreetly on a windowsill.  This box had a dial you turned in order to change the position of the antenna on the roof. This was supposed to improve the TV reception.

      And so we had a room fit for a crowd. Six people, however, rarely sat on our magnificent couch at any one time. My father would stretch his large frame on it and watch the large television until he fell asleep and the very round and very large pattern (which reminded me of the old Chicago Black Hawks' emblem) that indicated the only TV station we had was finished broadcasting for the night had shone dimly through the 21 inches of what we referred to as “snow” for several hours. The TV reception was not great, but at least the TV with its magnificent cabinet impressively occupied much space.

         Now if you have a large television and a large couch in your living room, you undoubtedly would wish to have a large coffee table to set off the whole decor.  Not only did my father purchase a grand coffee table, but he made sure it was formidably heavy.  Our coffee table was four feet long, with a removable marble top.  Yes, marble.  My father never tired of having guests, indeed anyone who happened by--the egg man, the milk man, the bread man, the Fuller Brush man, the transient asking for a handout—to try to lift the monster coffee table. He exhorted everyone to lift the coffee table to see just how heavy it was.  Its weight apparently testified to its worth. My father even brought people—friends and strangers alike--home to try their luck with the prodigious table.  I have a sneaking suspicion that lifting this table long into the nights kept my father in some semblance of physical fitness.

         One of my father's most cherished fantasies was to own a motel, and I have little doubt that his desire was as much for a home with more bedrooms than anyone else he knew had, than it was to make money without having to work for it. His fantasy had him sitting in the office, his feet stretched out on a desk, signing in guests, and taking in money to fill cardboard boxes big enough to hold that fine coffee table he so prized. What did not occur to him was that my mother would be the person cleaning those many rooms and doing the heavy laundry from so many beds. His vision was of the life of Riley, with money just floating into those large boxes. He would spend the days conversing with guests and accepting bundles of cash provided by those same guests. His days would benefit from the comforts of a soft chair and all that money could provide. His nights would slide by in pleasant dreams in which money actually did grow on trees.

         So you have the idea: my father always thought big. It should be no surprise, then, that when December rolled around he always wanted the largest Christmas tree on the block.  Not satisfied with the puny trees available from the Boy Scouts or from the Orange Young Britons, he decided one year to drive into the country and cut down his own tree, the biggest one he could find. He wanted a majestic fir fit for a once and future motel owner. I went along because my father harboured a hope that I would learn all the manly skills, including the chopping of trees, but truth to tell I was young and as puny as the Boy Scout trees my father scorned.

Consequently, my father asked Mr. Wobble from the house in back of us to go with us.  We would take two vehicles and cut down two trees, one for the Wobbles and one for us, but the real reason Mr. Wobble came along was that my father knew he would need as much lifting power as he could find to haul his handsome giant of a tree out of the woods and onto the roof of his car, a 1954 Ford Crestline. I suspect he had visions of giant redwoods as he imagined the wondrous tree in our front room. This would be a tree to complement the couch, the coffee table, and the television. This would be a tree to impress the many visitors who came to try their hands at lifting that awesome marble-topped coffee table. This would be a tree worthy of appearing in the pages of the local newspaper, The Record News. This would be a tree people would remember for years to come.

         We drove south on the Lombardy road for about ten miles, then turned into a side road and drove another three or four miles until the bush became thick on both sides of the road.  We stopped, got out of the cars, took an axe from each trunk, and climbed the split rail fence that separated the woods from the roadside ditch. We had galoshes on, of course, but none of us was prepared for the depth of snow that greeted us on the other side of the fence.  My legs disappeared.  My father and Mr. Wobble sank up to their calves.  They had a difficult time trudging through the snow, but I had an impossible time.  I saw them moving into the trees, and in my horror I shrieked.  I had visions of being left behind to fall prey to some savage beast. Snow was beginning to fall in fat fluffy flakes, and the track of my dragged body would quickly disappear. The two men stopped.  Turned.  And they began to laugh at the puny one wriggling up to his waist in snow.  Their laughter only made me feel worse than I felt when I saw them receding from me. They returned and hauled me out of the snow and onto my father's shoulders.  On we trudged into the depths of the forest looking for the perfect tree.  Before we cut the Wobble's tree, we had to find the McGillicuddy tree, the magnificent pine that would fill our living room with its grandeur, towering over the huge couch, TV, and coffee table. Placed correctly, it might also find itself reflected in the huge mirror giving our room two giant trees instead of one.

         After some time appraising trees, measuring them with the eye from top to bottom, looking for perfection in both height and symmetry, we came upon a giant among pines, a stately tree fit for a town square, a tree that might fittingly take its place on Parliament Hill in Ottawa or even in front of the White House.  We simply gazed up at it in admiration.  Then my father sent out the call to action.  "Let's fell this one, Ernie," he said to Mr. Wobble.  Warning me to stand back, the two men flung their axes over their shoulders to begin the deed.  With a mighty swing, my father brought his axe down toward the tree.  Instead of the hearty "thud" I expected to hear, I heard a slight "ping" as the axe head flew yards away and into the snow.  This flying of the axe head was a familiar occurrence; my father never got the hang of fixing the axe head to the handle firmly. A few loud and blistery words came my way from my father, whose face registered fury, the fury of the hunter who has found his prey only to be cheated of it at the last second.  The axe head had entered the snow cleanly, but where it entered was not where it came to rest, and it took several minutes of frantic snow flailing to find the thing.  Once the axe was, at least temporarily, repaired, the two men began again, chopping with all the zeal of seasoned lumberjacks.  This was manly work, work for the hardened woodsman, work that would earn a good glug from a handy bottle. They chopped and chopped, chips flying like snowflakes, until their axes came together in a clang and a curse.  The two men stopped and stared at each other, my father with a malignant look on his face. I thought my father was about to brain Mr. Wobble, when a terrific crack rent the air.  The great tree began to list and then to fall slowly and gracefully to the ground.  The three of us quickly moved away as the tree came down between Mr. Wobble and me and my father. It landed softly in the thick snow and lay there like Mr. French in his white satin-lined coffin, with the stillness of eternity. The deed was done.

         It didn't take long for the two men to find and bring down a smaller tree for the Wobble household.  This tree was so small that Mr. Wobble carried it over his shoulder back to the trunk of his car. It stuck out about a foot or so and Mr. Wobble tied the lid of the trunk to keep the tree from jumping out on the drive home. I could sense my father’s disdain. My father's tree could not be carried over anyone's shoulder, and certainly would not fit in anyone’s trunk.  It was too big even for the box of a good-sized pick-up truck. He and I just stood admiring this fallen forest monument while we waited for Mr. Wobble to return. By the time he got back, my father had had a few nips from the flask that he carried in a large pocket. He then shared it with Mr. Wobble. They both needed fortification before lifting the heavy load, my father said. Once fortified, they hauled the large tree with great huffs and puffs back to the split rail fence. The next trick was to get the tree over the fence and to do this they needed more fortification. Once fortified, they got the tree up and onto the fence and then rolled it until it slid to the ground on the road side of the fence, in the ditch. The tree was now only a few feet from the car, but in a depression that would make it difficult to haul up and onto the car.

       Now, my father prided himself on being prepared for anything, and he had brought several stout ropes with which he planned to lash the tree to the roof of our 1954 Ford hardtop.  The two men tied ropes to the tree and my father began pushing and shoving the thing up the bank toward the car while Mr. Wobble pulled on the ropes from above. I stood to the side and shivered in the cold. Grunting, cursing, and straining every muscle, my father and Mr. Wobble managed to get the tree beside the car and then stand it up. The next step was to hoist it onto the roof of the car.  This they did with more grunting and cursing. The tree was situated crossways on the roof until they swiveled it round like a compass needle. They positioned the tree so that the its pointy top hung down over the windshield effectively making two panes where there once had been one. Yes, my father had prepared the roof by covering it with an old blanket; he certainly did not wish to scratch the paint on his big car, the most glamorous car on the block.

         Much of the tree hung over the front of the car and over the trunk of the car, leaving little space for seeing out either the windshield or the rear window. The tree balanced precariously along the middle of the roof with its wide branches hanging over each side, effectively disturbing the view from the side windows. Since the car had only two doors, my father’s next bright idea was to place a rope around the tree near the back of the roof and bring it underneath the car so that the car became a huge wrapped Christmas present with the great tree on top serving as a decorative bow. Then he and I got in the car and Mr. Wobble circled a rope over the front of the tree and around the car itself, bringing the long rope up on either side of the car where he tied each end to a door handle.  My father and I were inside peering out through the small spaces left to see through. Once we got home, Mr. Wobble would untie the front rope and release us from the car. In the mean time, my father and I would be prisoners beneath the glory that was our Christmas tree. The tree lay like a great carcass on top of our big Ford V8. I could tell that my father was excited to get his prize home so that everyone could see it as he drove slowly down the block.

         Mr. Wobble's car was ahead of my father's when we began the return journey. The plan had been that we would be the first to leave for home so that if we had difficulty Mr. Wobble would be able to help. But the best-laid plans often go awry and Mr. Wobble quickly headed for his car and drove off before my father had a chance to lower the flask that he held victoriously to his mouth.  My father and I squinted through the branches that flecked the front windshield and watched Mr. Wobble pass out of sight. My father cursed and started the car. We had to go very slowly with the great tree creaking and shifting on the roof above us.  By the time we reached the Lombardy road, the tree had shifted noticeably because the blanket slid easily on the smooth roof.  The pointy top of the tree had shifted to the left making it even more difficult for my father to see the road. He had to lean way over to the right or else crane his neck out the half-lowered window. My father drove with care and I sat mute in anticipation of more of those familiar words. I continued to shiver with the cold. Turning into the main road, we confronted a huge truck that loomed upon us on the wrong side of the road.  My father lunged forward with his foot on the gas; the car lurched; the great tree began to slide backwards; my father crushed the brake with his right foot; the tree swung forward and several of its great branches moved down onto the hood effectively covering the windshield and my father's view.  Before he could recover from having gunned the engine, we bumped, slid, and jostled to a stop in the deep ditch beside the road.  The car had stalled. The huge truck disappeared into the distance. I heard those words.  I heard even more of them when my father tried to open his door only to find that Mr. Wobble had fixed the ropes well enough to stay around the car, even though they had not kept the tree immobile.  Neither of us could open our doors.

          My father suggested that I climb out my window and then undo the rope. I tried, but the car had tilted enough that my side of the car leaned against a large snow bank making it difficult if not impossible for me to get out. My father thought I was just being silly. “Don’t be a sissy,” he scoffed. If I was not going to get out my side, then he said I could climb over him and get out his window. But when he tried to role his window the rest of the way down, it stuck. As hard as he tried, he could not get the window to roll down. We would have to wait until someone came along. I began to whimper. I imagined the two of us frozen stiff and white by the time anyone found us. I wanted to go home. My father just glowered and tipped his flask skyward.

         After what seemed hours of sitting there and yelling frantically to each passing car, I got the bright idea of climbing out my window and digging through the snow bank.  I was small and could easily make my way out into the winter cold.  The snow bank was deep, but the car window was near the top of the bank and digging through would not be terribly difficult. Once outside the car, I could, I hoped, undo the rope and release my father.  I accomplished the deed without too much difficulty, but once I had untied the offending rope the tree slid farther off the side of the car until it came to rest between the edge of the roof and the snow bank out of which I had recently climbed.  My father knew that the two of us could not get the tree back into place and then get the car back onto the road.  I could hear him cursing my worse than boyish limbs, and cursing Ernie Wobble for abandoning us to the elements.  And the elements responded with an increased snowfall that came up quickly.

      As we stood there shivering in the December wind and snow, a pick-up truck stopped and its driver, a Mr. Tenant who just happened to be the father of Winston, a class-mate of mine who was even punier than I, offered to give us a hand.  Mr. Tenant owned a farm nearby, and he offered to go and get his tractor so he could pull the car from the ditch. My father thanked him by proffering him a slug from the flask. The two of them shared the flask and then Mr. Tenant got back in his pick-up and drove into the gathering dusk. Nighttime comes early in December. By the time Mr. Tenant returned with his tractor, darkness had long surrounded us. We were cold and miserable, and my father was feeling the effects of the contents of his flask that was now empty. Once the men had connected the tractor and car with a large chain, it was not long before the car was back on the road. Next Mr. Tenant placed the chain around the tree and hauled it up to the edge of the road, leaving a branch or two behind and ruining its once splendid symmetry. From there, the two men wrestled it onto the roof of the car. Then they secured the tree to the roof, only this time Mr. Tenant tied the ropes in such a fashion that we were not imprisoned in the car. He had a rope passing round the tree and down over the hood to the bumper. He added a second rope at the back where it attached to each side of the rear bumper. The tree seemed firmly in place.

        Before we could leave, my father had to thank Mr. Tenant.  So the two of them had a few snorts from the bottle my father had secreted in the trunk.  By the time we waved good-bye to Mr. Tenant, my father was somewhat higher in spirits than he had been a short while since. In less than an hour after Mr. Tenant had rescued us the tree was in place on the car roof, and we were headed home. We drove carefully toward town, my father humming Christmas music all the way.  At the edge of town, however, my father's high spirits took a dip when we passed Mr. Wobble heading the other way.  I can only guess that he had begun to wonder where we were and fearing something was wrong, he was on his way to find us.  Beside him in the front seat was my mother who probably feared that her son and husband had perished in the winter cold. My father honked, gesticulated, and hollered several familiar phrases, but Mr. Wobble was too intent on the road ahead of his vehicle to give us any notice.  How he could not see a car with an enormous Christmas tree tied to the roof is beyond me. We drove on home.

      When we got there we had to wait until Mr. Wobble and my mother returned so my father could have help getting the tree into the house. I offered to help, but my father indicated that this was not a good idea. He just waved me away. And so while we waited, my father turned to that bottle he had shared with Mr. Tenant. By the time Mr. Wobble and my mother returned it was past my bedtime, but I wanted to see this tree in our house. The two men wrestled the majestic pine up our front steps and onto the porch. Then it went through the front door, but it was too large to go from the hallway into the living room. They had to take the tree all the way past the living room door and through the dining room to the kitchen door. Then they could go through the dining room and through the large roller doors that separated dining room and living room. Once in the living room, they tried to stand the tree up, my mother ready with the bucket we used to hold the Christmas tree from year to year. The bucket, however, proved useless. The tree was too tall for the room. Undaunted, my father insisted that he and Mr. Wobble push until the top of the tree fit tightly to the living room ceiling. We had no need for the bucket because the tree fit snuggly from ceiling to floor. Nothing was going to dislodge that perfect Christmas tree.

       The next day, we began to decorate the tree, but the few decorations we had were just enough for one of those modest trees from the Boy Scours or the Orange Young Britons and so this tree of trees looked sadly bereft of bulbs and lights and tinsel and bells and candy canes and other Christmas tree decorations. My father threw several cotton wool balls onto the tree to try to fill out the decoration, but the attempt was futile. The tree also had a couple of empty spots where the branches we left back in the ditch had once lived. Its beautiful symmetry now looked truly fearful. The tree looked as if the elves had purloined most of its decorations and a couple of its branches. And the top of the tree, being squashed against the ceiling, would not take the familiar Christmas angel that in previous years had adorned the top of our trees. My father just said that the few decorations accented the size of the tree, and made it that much more impressive. The few lights we had winked wanly from a few of the great branches, reminding me of the lights from a lonely buoy out on the water near my uncle’s cottage.

       In any case, we had the largest Christmas tree on the block. This was the important thing for my father. We had the biggest Christmas tree on the block, and we had this tree well after there was no competition. That tree graced our living room long after all the other trees on the block had gone to Christmas tree heaven. That tree stayed put until the beginning of February when my mother put her foot down and insisted that the tree be removed. The dining room floor and the living room carpet were littered with pine needles. And so my father called on Mr. Wobble once again, and the two of them worked for quite some time until they managed to dislodge that tree along with some plaster from the ceiling, take it out to the kitchen doorway, then down the hall and out the front door, leaving a trail of pine needles behind. The tree then stayed on the front lawn for another couple of weeks before it disappeared. I never did know who took it away. But the tree did not leave us without a reminder of its majestic presence in our house. For years after, in fact until I left that house for good, the ceiling of our living room had a blemish in the corner nearest the outer wall of the dining room, and the floor below was marked with a sticky circle of pine sap that my mother could never completely remove.