One Scotch Pine

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

My brothers and I would nag our parents relentlessly as soon as the last crumbs of Thanksgiving were brushed off the good tablecloth. It was now officially Christmas after all, and we were ready to party. Mom and Dad could have used a few days respite before plunging headfirst into the holiday hoopla, but we kids refused to compromise, rocket-fueled by Russel Stover – the official energy source of yuletide. 

The day after Turkey fest, Dad would cuss a blue streak as he lugged the awkward box labeled “Scotch Pine” up the basement steps and into our excited huddle in the formal living room. Mom maintained this space akin to the Smithsonian with family artifacts and the good furniture off limits to the younger set except at this time of year, making decorating even more special. A bit of furniture rearranging was necessary to accommodate Mom’s desired vignette with “the tree” positioned front and center of the largest window. Perhaps it was the feng shui of merriment or maybe just Mom’s OCD. Regardless, it all meant one thing to us kids: Gifts were on the way!

Dad was a cable splicer for the phone company and, for obvious reasons, had a predilection for detail. He would carefully match and engage each limb and layer of foliage into their corresponding sockets on the metal trunk pole that was then wrapped with faux bristles. “Modern” fabrication was a misnomer, and despite the company’s attempt at authenticity and Dad’s precision, the evergreen appeared much like a glorified toilet brush.

Each rounded prickly branch was supposed to represent those of an actual pine tree. In my youthful world I wondered if Scotland indeed possessed commode-cousin conifers. Perhaps this was a cruel joke from the Scots for those of us on this side of the pond? Or perhaps the “Scotch” part was a suggestion as to what Dad should sip on in order to tolerate all the falderal? Surely our full set of World Book Encyclopedias would provide answers.

Dad was indeed of Scottish heritage, liked a good single malt whiskey, and held a hearty disdain for the overspending and insanity of Christmas. He possessed the distinct air of Scrooge himself, rolling his eyes and swearing under his breath all through December. Nonetheless, he dutifully assembled the basic structure then stepped aside as Mom – the Royal Embellisher – was free to fluff branches and adorn to her exacting standards. 

The bevy of latrine “branches” were festooned with red glass balls, fuzzy foil garlands, and an avalanche of tinsel. Much to Mom’s chagrin, our curious cat especially enjoyed the silvery strands which provided irresistible sparkle followed by an interesting gastronomic experience – which we will just leave at that.

Once fully decorated, the green faux cone took on a life of its own, shimmying like a go-go dancer whenever the gas furnace sent up a blast of hot air and set the plastic icicles jangling. (It was the sixties and early seventies, and we were all about the groove.) On occasion our typically outdoor mouser would add extra motion to the mix as she happily navigated branches in the comfort of a warm house.  

The cheesiest shrub ever was a source of endless wonder and magic in our rural Pennsylvania darkness. I would lie under it and gaze up into the starburst of lights and greenery, getting lost in its magical kaleidoscope spell. While I obviously needed to venture someday beyond our family hill, anticipating this simple annual ritual kept me going for the rest of the cold winter. Snow, a few outdoor lights, and “A Charlie Brown Christmas” rendered my holiday world complete. Dad despised hanging outdoor lights but loved Snoopy. He was quick to watch the cartoon with us kids but only grudgingly placed a few outdoor bulbs around our bedroom windows for maximum effect and minimum whining.

Looking back at snapshots from those days always makes me smile. Our 6-foot water closet conifer was plenty fancy, offering its grand illumination for drivers rounding our section of hill road on their ascent. Mom would never admit this goal, but watching her proudly sip some jug Chablis with a smug gaze toward the darkness would suggest otherwise.

I am not sure what happened to that original plastic pine. We relocated south in the mid-seventies, and photos suggest a new arbor member in our holiday hustle. But it was still a pine. Not a Scot, but definitely a less latrine and more powder room species for our new, much warmer, locale. Some things never change, and regardless of where we have hung our hats over the years, red orbs, too much tinsel, and a bourbon-sipping Dad will forever be in the mix of my holiday memories.

Cheers!