Reed Ide

Getting the Christmas tree properly anchored and artistically lit was my father’s annual job. As with many things, he had his own accompanying idiosyncrasies. In this case, our tree sat, not in any type of Christmas tree stand, but in a galvanized bucket, kept firm by coal pieces. All doors leading to the living room remained firmly shut during this annual ordeal, my father’s grunts and groans the only clues as to his ongoing success or failure.

Once, when I was still very young, Dad and I visited our neighbors. They, like us, lived in a drafty barn of a house, built in the late 19th century. It was at the height of pre-Christmas preparations, and I was fascinated by their tree’s resting place – a red and green stand with short legs and a bowl bottom for water. It seemed festive and jolly to my young eyes, but my father was impervious to my suggestion that we might have one like that!

When Dad had made final adjustments to the aesthetics of the lights, the living room doors were opened. Mom emerged to give a final blessing to the tree’s appearance. Only then were my brother and I, supervised by Mom, allowed to move forward with decorations.

Dad’s final Christmas came in 2009. At the age of 90, he still managed to retrieve his beloved coal, stand the tree straight, and get all the lights evenly distributed to Mom’s satisfaction. By the following October he was gone.

Mom remained in the family home for another two years. It was my job to ready the house for sale. At the end, I hired a junk dealer with truck. Working in the garage, the driver held up the small wastebasket filled with chunks of coal. “And this?” he asked. I stood mute. “Take it away,” I said, finally. He placed it unceremoniously on the back of his truck. I watched as the truck, laden with the bits and pieces of two lives, swayed down the driveway, turned onto the road, and disappeared over the hill.

Today, my Christmas tree stands in a red and green plastic affair with bolts that screw into the tree trunk. I’m lucky if decorations are finished by Christmas Eve. But each year I always find time to remember those bygone Christmas seasons, and the joy that always accompanied our Christmas coal.