One of the few traditions we had as a family was selecting the annual Christmas tree. When I was quite young and living a farmhouse in Virginia, I recall cross-country skiing as a family into the forest behind the house, finding the perfect tree, sawing it down, dragging it back to the house, and decorating it for the season. This tree was probably six feet tall but, as a young child, it seemed huge in our living room. I only recall our tree being collected in this manner the one time., ever since we have done the far more traditional method of visiting a tree farm and selecting from the rows of similarly sized trees. The only bits that has remained is the size and cutting it down by hand saw. There is something to this action, the manual labour involved, that feels more traditional, something I suspect is rising given the popularity of tree permits on recreation.gov.

For many years we slotted our selected trees into the norm, trees that fit neatly on family car rooftops, easily carried to the home and through the door, and held upright by the common metal stand with the simple threaded bolts fit snug to the small trunk. For many years our trees were cut down by the most willing child, decorated simply, and referred to as “cute.” And for many years we were just like all the friend’s and neighbor’s in the holiday tree department. That is until we moved into the house we were building.

It was the summer before my sixth-grade year when my father deemed the home ready for inhabitants. We moved into a shell of a home that was still a construction zone. We had one working bathroom, plywood for our floors, and interior sheetrock only around the bathroom spaces. The remaining walls were still exposed studs, something we as kids used to our advantage, moving between rooms in a way our parents couldn’t follow. The house was an original design of our father’s; semi-modern in design but lined inside and out with wood planks. Entering the front door, one would be greeted to a forty wide living space. Directly in from of you was two towering columns of cinder block (later to be clad in the same tile as the floor) rising up to the second level. Your eye was able to continue upward along the rising roofline to the third story windows and the open entrance to the loft. I recognize this sounds grand and, to the young children of the family, it was. It was also somewhat grand to the small town we had decided to call our home.

Why I tell you these details are not to brag about the home my father built (there were many problems and shortcomings) but to illustrate the open space as you entered. The height from this first floor to the ceiling above was no less than twenty feet. This rising space gave the home a very open feeling, so much so that you may not notice that the kitchen on the second floor meant countless trips up and down stairs carrying heavy sacks of groceries.

It was this first winter in our new home that our typically curmudgeon father took a special interest in Christmas, filled mostly by an obsession with getting the tree. So, one morning we all climbed into the family car for our annual journey to the tree farm. Except our father who hopped into the front seat of his old International Harvester pickup that he had long ago turned into a flatbed. The old V8 roared to life and he pulled out of the drive with us in tow. At the beginning of the drive, we all asked our mom why he was in the truck. “Did he have to go to work?”. “Was he picking up more lumber for the house?”.  Our questions were only met with, “I don’t know.” To this day I don’t know if she knew what was to come on this day or if she too was in the dark.

Arriving at the farm, we all assumed our usual roles. I, for some reason, adopted the personality of an interior designer. Although I had no idea at that age what an interior designer was or what they did, I would inspect every tree from every angle to find the one that was most uniform. My sisters would look for what they called “character” and for the tree that “spoke to them” and my brother would be puling needles off one at a time to see if the tree had feelings. These needles would also inevitably be produced at unexpected times to be poked into exposed skin.

Our father, who had arrived shortly before us, clearly had a different idea about forestry this year. Tromping through the rows of trees, he made a beeline for the few trees towards the back, to the trees that were overlooked each year. The trees that may have been rejected by a young designer’s inspection. The trees that were now approaching twenty feet in height. For, it seems our dad had learned this particular Christmas tree lot stopped charging by the foot over ten feet in height so, anything taller was all the priced the same. My father was something of a cheapskate, he loved the idea of getting more for less, and was currently searching for the tallest tree he could fit on the bed of his truck.

Learning what was to be the family Christmas tree this year, the eyes of the four Fischer children widened. Jaws dropped, pretenses fell, traditions broke, needles tumbled from fingers. We were about to have the largest Christmas tree ever!

Selection didn’t take long, there was really only a few this height on the lot to choose from. A saw was summoned and with a call of “timber!” the tree fell to the Earth. The truck was backed up, rope was produced from behind the bench seat, and, with the help of the lot’s owner, the tree was hoisted on top. After a bit of fussing about, the tree was tied and the Fischer posse left the lot.

I can only imagine the thoughts of other drivers on the road with us that day. From behind there was very little of the truck visible, really only wheels and the occasional glint off a side mirror. It had to look like some bad attempt at a holiday version of the Weinermobile. From the side the front half of the truck was visible and our father could be seen at the wheel smiling smugly at the great deal he had just made. Following behind was the dark blue economy car with four madly grinning kids excitedly talking about the traveling topiary in front of them. Piloting this chase car was our mother who had no expression on her face. Again, I have no idea if she knew the day’s plans beforehand.

Once we were home and the tree unstrapped from the truck it was unceremoniously rolled off to the ground. We then discovered our first obstacle. This tree with its nearly twenty feet in height also had a much larger base size than previous trees. The six- to seven-foot-tall trees we usually had was now the width of the lower branches! Looking at the standard sized, single front door to the house, us kids asked how we were getting it inside. I don’t know if dad had thought of that yet or simply didn’t care as he was already saw in hand clearing branches away from the trunk in preparation for the stand. Having satisfied himself with the work, he then lined the tree up with the front door. It was here that he observed what his children were asking and paused. He calmly opened the door, took a moment to look about inside, and returned to the tree. Barking orders as to what child was to hold what part of the tree, we lined up to the open door and proceeded to ram the tree through like a child insisting the round peg fit in the square hole.

Branches bent, needles flew, yelps of pain as branches punctured skin were mixed with barks of “push!” And then, with a force like a champagne cork being shot across the room, the tree exploded into the house.

We all paused at this point, took a breath and assessed the situation. Now, what I didn’t tell you earlier about the grand forty-foot-wide living room was that it is only ten feet deep. So now, with a tree almost as much outside as inside, we pondered our next move. Deciding again on brute force, we pulled the base down the length of the room while others pushed and pulled on what branches they could grasp. As the tree arced its way into the living room and the doorway became clear once again, we discovered our younger sister. Lying face down across the threshold, hands interlocked behind her neck and covered in pitch and needles, she looked like the survivor of a bear attack.

Taking no time for rest (or to help his child), our father called out for the tree stand and Mom arrived briefly with our usual stand. The red and green stamped metal offering was clearly not meant for a tree of such stature as was currently lying across our living room floor. Unswayed, our father kept with theme of the afternoon and tried to force it on the trunk. Grumbling about it being a piece of junk (a phrase often used to describe anything that couldn’t adapt to whatever he thought it should be able to do) he tossed it to the side. He exited the house once again, stepping over our sister still cowering in the doorway.

He returned shortly with various boards and scrap pieces of lumber. Our sister had been cleared of the threshold and was now in the living room picking needles off herself one at a time. Building like a possessed man longer boards got screwed into the trunk and shorter boards attached to those at right angles. He worked his way around the trunk attaching these makeshift outriggers to each other and to the tree. We were tasked with holding the tree up off the floor for the final installment.

When it was time for the tree to return to its natural position, we were again assigned our tasks. My father and siblings prepped to hoist the tree into its new home while I was handed the large, yellow bin that was only brought out when one of us (usually me) was sick. This was now being repurposed as the tree’s water reservoir. With much grunting and grumbling, up the tree went in a sort of surreal homage to its earlier toppling. I aimed the cut trunk towards the middle of the basin and, as the tree flung upward, I was miraculously spared impalement.

We collectively took a step back to admire the great pine tree now standing proudly in our living room. A decision that quickly proved to be a mistake as it began to fall to one side. Quickly grabbing at the tree, small hands supported the trunk while our father scrambled around making adjustments to his wooden support structure. Realizing his engineered solution wasn’t going to support the tree, he once again fled the house towards the shed. Returning with some hooks, a ladder, and a roll of wire, the type often used to bind rebar together, he set to work tying the upper part of the tree and securing it. Wires were pulled to the second-floor railing, the upper part of the wall, and anywhere else solid he could find to insert a hook. Eventually, the tree stood on its own and we were able to admire the sheer grandeur.

But there was little time for standing about, the tree must be decorated! The boxes of holiday decorations were pulled into the now open space of the living room and we set about bejeweling and bedazzling every branch. The strands of lights that were needed to cover such size was immense, we had to run extension cords from various outlets elsewise risk being featured in next year’s safety commercial (the one showing eighteen different strands and splitters all plugged into one outlet that always burst into flames). More ladders were brought out as we made our way up the branches. Stringers of shiny beads began to reflect the colours of the lights. Ornaments were placed deep inside the foliage to be discovered secrets for those that searched and candy canes began to hang from all levels. Last to be applied was the tinsel. Multiple packs were opened, divided out among the family, and tossed about the tree with great glee.

Soon the tree was done, twinkling and shiny, it stood both as a marvel of nature and engineering. The yellow tub was filled with water and blankets were used in place of a tree skirt. As we turned our attention to the remaining parts of the house, we discovered our mother had decorated throughout the home while our attentions had been focused on the tree.

As word got out in town about our tree, people would occasionally drive by in wonder at seeing the tree topper glisten through the second story windows. Friends learned they could drop by and circumnavigate the base. Going upstairs to the opening above and looking down offered a perspective unique to our home. Our family pets, once stray cats that had long ago adopted us, learned they could climb the tree and jump to the railing of the second floor. Over time we as well learned better ways to deal with these gargantuan trees. We began marking next year’s tree at the lot when we picked up the current year’s. We learned to not put ornaments we cared about in the lower five feet less they become cat toys. We learned that an 18’ tree drinks almost two gallons of water a day, and we learned how to put the tree upright with greater ease.

Today our mother no longer brings a tree into her home for the holidays, the tradition waned as we all began leaving home. Of the four children, only my once needle covered younger sister still regularly celebrates with a live tree. Carrying on the tradition, her family also fills a taller section of their living room. And, I know I took some creative license in describing the events in regard to my younger sister, but don’t feel too bad for her. One year she pulled the tree inside and stood it up solo in the time between missing the school bus and me returning in a friend’s car to pick her up. She never once let a tree defeat her, not even that first year. I can only hope that her own two children truly appreciate the crazy joy a ridiculously large Christmas tree can bring a family each year.

Dedicated to my father who through all the grumbling would now and then have a hairbrained scheme that made us all laugh.