We put up our Christmas tree exactly one week before Christmas, and we took it down one week after. Never earlier, never later. It was tradition in our family when we lived in Lewisburg in the 1950’s. Selecting the tree was another tradition.
On the appointed day, everyone piled in our car, a fifty-something Pontiac and headed for Bud Simm’s Esso Station, one of only a handful of places that sold trees. There were no Douglas or Frazier firs that I recall. Our tree selection consisted of white pines. If you didn’t like a long-needled white pine, you were out of luck, and there were no artificial trees in those days. Any family with an artificial tree would have been dragged before the McCarthy Committee on Un-American Activities.
In the lot, Daddy was the holder and Mom was the chooser.
“How about this one, George?’ she’d ask. Daddy simply grunted as he rotated the tree to make sure all the sides were presentable. White pines were heavy, by the way.
Ultimately, a tree was selected and then the haggling began.
“Five dollars for a tree?” Daddy shockingly exclaimed. “They were just a buck when I was a boy, and not many had a buck to spend.”
Sometimes Daddy got a half-dollar knocked off from the price, but usually he shelled out a five-spot and we were homeward bound.
Getting the tree in the house was no easy task. These white pines were beasts. They were always too tall and had a wingspan like a condor, and they were really heavy. Getting the tree to agree to sit on the flimsy stand was also most difficult, but each year, we somehow managed.
One of my jobs was to locate the several boxes of Christmas paraphernalia stashed in the attic. It was cold up there, and dusty. Likely it had been a year since anyone knocked down the cob-webs. But there they were, two large boxes of lights and ornaments
Before any decorating would begin, quality control was called in to check out the lights. If any one of the lights on any of the five or so strings didn’t work, they all didn’t work. One by one, non-working lights were replaced and only then the lights could be strung on the massive tree.
Today, we have little tiny Christmas light bulbs. When I was a kid, the things were nearly the size of a 100-watt bulb, and they got hot! Touch one that had been on for a while, and it took two layers of skin from the unfortunate finger.
What I most remember about the old Christmas tree lights were the reflectors. These were large aluminum gizmos that you poked the lights through. Clark Griswold would have loved reflectors. They were blinding if you looked at them too long – sorta’ like watching a soldering iron. But they made the tree sparkle.
The final touches of the nearly decorated tree were performed by yours truly. It was the hanging of the tinsel. Carefully, gently, the fresh packages of tinsel were laid out and I had to separate each strand, then lay it on an exposed needle. This is where white pines earned their keep. Their needles were so long that sometimes you could hand six strands of tinsel on a single needle.
When the tree was finished, it was a thing of beauty with the bright, reflector lights and the glistening tinsel.
Two weeks later, the tree came down, destined for a spring burn in Daddy’s vegetable garden. The boxes of lights and all the ornaments were packed carefully in their designated boxes and returned to the attic. Another Christmas had passed. Out of town family and guests had come and gone and the living room was back to normal.
But just think? Only 351 more days and we could do it again!