Glory Days

Back in 1982, when I was 17, I entered a city-wide Christmas story contest in the local newspaper. My English teacher was a great help to me, editing, suggesting, etc. Turns out I came in second in the contest. Went to get my prize and get the photo taken with the other winners, and only then found out that my English teacher had himself entered the contest, and he came in third. He was not in the least dismayed to be beaten by his student. He was proud and handled the inevitable ribbing with good humour. Good guy. First prize went to a retired teacher in the district, a local legend who has a school named after him, so I was in very good company. Anyway, every Christmas my mom trots out the story and foists it upon those few people in this area who have not read it. I'll admit, it is a source of pride for me. The idea, not the writing. In typing it out today, I cringed many times and fought the urge to re-write.

So, basking in some stray rays of former glory, I give to you my Christmas story, for your reading pleasure.

For Tradition’s Sake

The man helped his daughter with her boots. “Daddy,” she said, “I like Christmastime!”

Smiling, he agreed and hurried her out the door. Cold, crisp air introduced itself to their noses and ears. He took the axe off the front porch, felt its blade, then tossed it in the back of the truck.

“What’s the axe for, Daddy?” she asked.

“To get the tree with, silly! Now let’s hurry up before Mom finds out we took all the shortbread for lunch!” She giggled while he lifted her into the truck.

“Where are we going to get the tree?” she asked as she settled into her seat-belt.

“Oh, down near the lake, Amy. Not too far away.” The truck started immediately, as if it were eager to go. Sounds of “Jingle Bells” spilled out of the radio.

He looked in his rear-view mirror at the house they had just left. Memories of years past filled his mind. He thought of the small apartment, with its injured heating system and rice-paper walls. Of the table-top, artificial thing they’d called a Christmas tree…

“Daddy, how come we didn’t go to get a tree last year? We’ve never had a real tree before, have we?”

“No Amy, we haven’t. Last year our house was just too small. We’ve never had room for a real Christmas tree before. But this year, with our brand new house, we can have a gigantic Christmas tree!”

The truck’s engine roared over her giggles, as it turned down the road leading to the lake. Branches crackled under the tires and brushed against the windshield. “Daddy, tell me again about how Christmas was when you were a little boy”.

He smiled. “Well, we lived in a really big farmhouse. Every year Grandpa and I would go out and get a big, bushy tree, just like you and I are doing now. We’d hang strings of popcorn on it, and candy canes too.” He stopped in mid-memory, still smiling. “Yes, it was really nice. We always had a big tree then. But the one we’re going to get today will be just as great, Amy!”

The truck crunched to a stop in the snow. He helped her out and they started on their search for the perfect tree. Dustings of diamond-snow fell on them, both from the sky and from overhanging limbs. They walked through the forest together. She led the way. Although thick, majestic trees stood everywhere, she decided on a small one. “Look, Daddy! A baby tree! I want this one!”

“Are you sure, honey? There’s a nicer, bigger one over there.”

“No, Daddy. I want this one. He’s little, just like me!”

Deciding to abide by her wishes, he picked up the axe and moved closer to the tree. “Stand back, Amy!” he said. He swung at the little trunk.

She looked at him questioningly. “Daddy, how are you going to put the tree back if you cut it down?”

Surprised by the question, he turned from his work. “No, Amy. We don’t put it back. We take it home and it stays there.”

Her eyes lit up. “You mean I get to keep it? I get to have a pet baby tree?”

“No Amy, you don’t understand. After Christmas is over, we don’t keep the tree anymore. We use it in the fireplace to keep our house warm.”

A horrified expression came over her face. “But Daddy, if we do that, then the tree will…die!”
“Honey, when we take the tree home—when we cut it down—it will die then.”

She looked frantically at him. “No Daddy! We can’t do that! We can’t kill him! His friends will all be sad. He has to come back to the forest, Daddy! Please!”

“But Amy, thousands of people do this every year. Everybody has real trees at Christmas.”

A painful expression filled her eyes. “But why? Why do we have to kill it, Daddy?”

Frustration spoke for him. “Because it’s tradition, Amy. Don’t be difficult. People always kill—cut down—trees at Christmas! Now be quiet and let me finish so we can get home!”

An angry taint to his voice stopped her plea. She moved closer to the tree. “I have to say good-bye to him first, and tell him not to be scared about what’s going to happen.” She hugged the fir and began to whisper. After a few moments, she stepped back, looked up at her father with teary, confused eyes and said, “Okay, Daddy. He’s ready…”

That Christmas their house was lovely in its decorations. Wreaths hung on the doors and the presents were mounted around…the table-top artificial thing they called a Christmas tree.