The Indomitable Christmas Spirit

As a child, we got our Christmas tree a block away from St. Peter’s Church. Each year an argument ensued between my folks and the guy they negotiated with who they affectionately called ‘the robber.” He was notorious for selling overpriced Christmas trees to the locals in the shadow of the enormous crucifix perched high above the Church. The irony. Each year they returned, hopeful of a miraculous outcome. Instead, the same drill followed. Once home the string holding the tightly wound tree was released and so too were all the frustrations in its acquisition. The focus now was on the tree and all it meant to my parents. It was an enchanting process for my parents where I got to witness the child in them come to life once a year.

Every part of the preparation of the tree was exciting for them including the watering of the fir which was maintained on a schedule that would make the military proud — dedicated times throughout the day without the slightest deviation. My mother carefully decorated it with delicate and unique European baubles that she acquired over the years, alongside some campy ones peppered in from Woolworth’s. Each neatly unwrapped in tissue paper resembling origami. She was especially fond of the candle ornaments which were never allowed to be lit. Our fire violations existed in more creative ways. I’m confident if she had a large enough doily it would have served as a skirt for the tree.

My dad went bonkers with the big multicoloured Christmas bulbs, twelve to a strand, and he maxed them out every year unknowingly testing the weight of the tree. A stash of extra bulbs conveniently lived in the hi-fi next to the tree as the Christmas music of Nat King Cole, and Perry Como played on vinyl skipping now and then. After he lit the crap out of the decorated fir, we could barely see the silhouette of what they had brought home. The base enveloped in a labyrinth of extension cords resembling the appearance of an octopus from an episode of Jacques Cousteau. To this day I have no idea how they watered it without getting electrocuted. The tree was so lit, tangled in a slew of extension cords, and supporting a remarkable amount of weight that we were fortunate it never collapsed or worse yet combusted. All of it a fleeting memory once the electricity bill arrived in January.

Once the mid-sixties arrived, the idea of an artificial Christmas tree became more the fashion. My dad loved form and function and priding himself as an environmentalist came to resent the fact that a tree was cut down only to serve a few weeks of festivities — the notion of a fabricated tree resonated with them.  It required no maintenance and was a modern concept for an immigrant couple from Czechoslovakia. Not a lot of things came through our front door. What did, had to serve a purpose. They were mindful spending only on what they needed. I watched my dad assemble the artificial tree struggling as he balanced himself, one knee on the floor the other bent, cigarette dangling loosely in his mouth, smoke wafting blanketing the fake tree. The branches unilaterally inserted into the designated spots indicated on the pole by red smudges. The construction taking less than five minutes with all the branches strategically pointing at 45-degree angles surrounding the pole. Voila, our tree was born. My mother commenced decorating while sporting a fresh beehive hair doo. With all the hairspray holding it firm, she was as combustible as the tree. She lovingly shrouded the tree in mounds of furry tinsel. “Oh look,” she observed with such delight. “The tree looks like Zsa Zsa Gabor!”

By that time fruitcakes had already found their way into our home. We never ate them. My folks didn’t understand them recognizing anything outside of a walnut tort as simply not dessert. Being resourceful they were typically used as door stoppers for when they carried groceries into the house as they were surprisingly heavy. For the moment they were symbols of the season serving as placeholders under the tree for presents to come. The lights strategically wrapped around the tree, the decorations now complete we marvelled when it came to the initial lighting of the tree. My dad bent down behind the monstrosity of wiring to plug it in, a fresh lit cigarette barely half an inch away from ignitable branches hanging from the corner of his mouth. The nine-inch heap of dark brown extension cords, now serving as an electrical skirt burying a wall plug that any fire marshall would have been mortified to witness.

My eyes were tightly shut as were my fists when suddenly our modest home was ignited with blazing bright light and the promise of a festive season. Quiet it was not, but somewhat similar to a light show you would see in some Vegas marque. Had we had a skylight back then, it would have been visible to NASA. Then the moment everyone waited for – the blinking. An essential feature for my dad. I was overwhelmed with excitement. The pièce de ré·sis·tance was when he went to the bathroom and returned with a pine scented aerosol spray can and commenced spraying the tree until it was saturated. A fog so thick you would think air tankers were dumping fire retardant in our living room. As I was bent over coughing, my eyes burning,  I heard my dad speak. “There every bit as good as a real tree and we won’t have to negotiate with that robber at the church.” Each year the tree got adorned, and each year it smelled like the bathroom.

That tree is long gone. It was the first generation of flammable fake trees with the aluminum strands incorporated into its branches. The lights were recalled shortly after that for reports of people getting electrocuted, followed by lots of Public Service Announcements to be mindful of not outfitting electrical outlets for fire hazards. The Christmas candle ornaments are no longer manufactured due to the resulting house fires, and the lead content in the furry tinsel, as well as some of the decorations, was removed from the market for obvious reasons. The old aerosol cans were replaced with new versions that came with special dispensation in how to properly dispose of them ensuring that they didn’t find themselves into landfills. The fruitcakes now available in a selection of sizes exhibit health warnings to those that have nut allergies or require gluten-free goods. Smoking in ones home has also become a rarity. Tobacco typically consumed outside and home-rolled cigarettes now replaced with weed, rolling papers, vaporizers or bongs. An inconceivable Christmas wish back then except for the occasional stoner’s Christmas list, now a reality. As toxic and dangerous a tree that it once was, we all had one, and like other families, we had trust around all of it. A faith, so strong in the season that it was unimaginable that anything bad would happen. Perhaps that tenacious belief year after year brought us a type of immunity from the cornucopia of fire hazard, toxic induced decorations that defined Christmas. There existed an indomitable Christmas spirit. We had trust in the magic of the season, in the manger, St. Nicholas and Santa and the hope of every twinkling light serving as a sign of blessings and abundance for the upcoming year.