Christmas Present

By Clara Blair

On a cold December morning, with a stiff wind roaring down from the North, I was given my first Christmas gift of the year by a young man I’d never met before. It was spontaneous, personal, and totally unexpected.

It was a bitterly cold morning, a couple weeks late to find a prime tree, but there we were at a Christmas tree farm, bundled up against the raw north wind, seeing what was left.

A huge open shed near the front gate held dozens of spruce and fir trees eight feet and taller, from faraway mountains, smelling like heaven though cut for a month, and priced in three figures: not what we’d come for.

We’d come for a fresh one, a tree that would last until New Year’s Day, safely holding all the little treasures we’d hang from its branches and nestle between its boughs, lit with hundreds of cool and twinkling electric stars.

So we hunkered in the shed, listening to the sweet voices of a local children’s choir who sang their little hearts out, bundled up in layers of parkas and colorful scarves. Their music was almost wonderful enough to banish thoughts of frostbite.

Finally the wagon arrived to take us into the tree fields, where we hoped to find a tree big enough to fill our front window and thick enough to be worth the trip, despite the two-year drought, our own procrastination and, oh, would it fit in the car?

The first field was so picked-over, the wagon driver didn’t even pause.

Second not much better: “These here may be good next year, folks,” he said hopefully.

Third field: “This is about it," the driver said. "If ya find one that suits ya, just call one o’ the boys and he’ll he'p ya get it back to the shed.”

The scene before us could not be mistaken for something out of the Christmas storybooks of my childhood. A Christmas tree farm is, after all, a farm, but we were definitely in a gleaning situation. There were lots of stumps and promising saplings of two or three feet, but very few trees mature enough to wear the tags designating them as ready to cut.

There were narrow trees with thin, bare tops; short, round trees that looked more like bushes; trees that looked promising from a distance but, up close, showed that they had been clipped and shaped in an attempt to hide a badly leaning or twisting trunk.

But this was it. We had waited too long and would have to make do. My husband and I examined the likeliest candidates and considered them from all angles. Which side would face the window? Would this gap in the branches be too tempting to one of the cats?

With enough lights and ornaments, we could hide the tree's flaws if we could get it fastened into the tree stand in such a way that gravity, or the cats, wouldn't pull it over. In a pinch, we could use some cord to attach it to the big drapery rod . . . .

We finally found a tree, not too tall, but wide enough and straight enough. A young man with heavy gloves and a hacksaw cut and tagged it for us. We hitched a ride on the next wagon back to the shed and claimed our tree, wrapped in plastic mesh, looking much bigger now that we had it next to our little car!

If you have a choice, do not go shopping for a fresh-cut Christmas tree driving a subcompact car.

People who work at a family-run tree farm most often, of course, are family. The teenaged boys enjoy driving the wagons, cutting down trees, being folksy with the lookers and buyers.

But wrestling a scratchy Virginia Pine into some idiot’s tiny car on a windy mean December morning is nobody’s idea of a good time.

One of the patriarchs called two kids from the shelter of the shed and told them to “He’p these folks git this tree inta their car.”

One of the kids was white like the owner, probably a nephew or grandson. The other was very black and very cold, with a knit cap pulled down nearly over his eyes. Neither one looked very happy to be there.

Nephew took charge and hastily looped a single strand of twine to tie the tree atop our little car. My husband, a very mild-mannered man, was speechless. I, gray-haired old white lady with a cane, pointed out that the twine would snap before we drove a mile, if the tree didn’t fall off first.

Nephew stalked off “ta git more twine,” leaving three of us standing there with the tree and the car.

Realizing Nephew was in no hurry, the young black man said softly, “I’ll be back in a minute, ma’am.” And sure enough, he was.

He and my husband jammed the tree into the trunk of the little car, and the young man lay on the cold gravel drive, diligently securing the latch of the trunk to the underside of the bumper. Our little tree would make it home just fine.

He scrambled up off the gravel and dusted himself off. With a warm smile he said, “Merry Christmas, ma’am!”

“Merry Christmas to you,” I said and we shared a great big hug. He didn’t even look at the couple of dollars I pressed into his hand.

Kindness is not for sale, especially not at Christmas. Maybe he wasn’t part of their family, but he was part of ours. I felt like I had met one of the Magi.

© 2003 Clara Blair