Dad and the Mystery Tree
I moved into my own place in 2001. My own purchased place. I'd never lived anywhere that I actually owned before--I'd always rented or lived with my parents. And, similarly, I'd never had my own Christmas tree before. My parents had all my ornaments and I was usually going home for the holidays. I can't think of many Christmas Eves that I didn't spend sleeping at my parents' house.
But now I had my own place. And I was going to get my own tree. My mother gave me a bunch of ornaments that she had been hoarding for me and I was ready to rumble. Of course, that meant I had to actually go purchase a tree.
My father and I were always the tree searchers in the house. We'd go pick out the tallest, fattest tree we could get away with and strap that sucker onto the roof of whatever he was driving that particular year, unless it was during the years that he drove the VW Rabbit, which meant we shoved the tree in the back end and held the trunk the whole way home.
This year was no different. My mother had switched to a fake tree after years of yelling at my father for getting trees that were too fat for her taste. But I provided the perfect opportunity for our expert tree-purchasing skills.
So we head out one Sunday morning, a few weeks before Christmas. Now, you must understand that, in the part of the world in which I live, absolutely nothing is open on Sunday morning but churches. Some businesses don't open on Sundays at all. So we drove up and down the main drag, in search of a Christmas tree lot that had someone manning a cash register. We finally found some poor sod with his operation set up in the parking lot of Big Lots. That should have been my first clue.
He had some nice trees. Don't get me wrong. I had picked out a nice, short, good-smelling tree that I thought would be perfect in my living room--not taking up too much space but making a good statement. But Dad? He had other plans.
The tree I picked out cost approximately $30. Apparently, that was too rich for my father's blood. So he goes up to the gypsy king running the show and starts dickering.
"Is this really $30?"
"If that's what the tag says."
"Can't we go a little lower?"
"That's what the tag says."
My father apparently thought we lived near a Turkish bazaar where every price was negotiable. But then, his eyes lit up.
"Hey, what about if we take one of those," he said, pointing.
"$10."
My father, in his infinite wisdom, had found the perfect bargain. Trees filled the back of a large truck, still bundled and untrimmed, fresh off the farm. If we bought a tree that hadn't been gussied up yet, then we could get a bargain basement price.
By this point, I was so cold, I could've purchased Charlie Brown's tree and been perfectly happy, so I let my father pick one out and helped him tie the thing onto the roof of my Honda. Then we trundled home.
Next--Tools and Trees Don't Mix...
But now I had my own place. And I was going to get my own tree. My mother gave me a bunch of ornaments that she had been hoarding for me and I was ready to rumble. Of course, that meant I had to actually go purchase a tree.
My father and I were always the tree searchers in the house. We'd go pick out the tallest, fattest tree we could get away with and strap that sucker onto the roof of whatever he was driving that particular year, unless it was during the years that he drove the VW Rabbit, which meant we shoved the tree in the back end and held the trunk the whole way home.
This year was no different. My mother had switched to a fake tree after years of yelling at my father for getting trees that were too fat for her taste. But I provided the perfect opportunity for our expert tree-purchasing skills.
So we head out one Sunday morning, a few weeks before Christmas. Now, you must understand that, in the part of the world in which I live, absolutely nothing is open on Sunday morning but churches. Some businesses don't open on Sundays at all. So we drove up and down the main drag, in search of a Christmas tree lot that had someone manning a cash register. We finally found some poor sod with his operation set up in the parking lot of Big Lots. That should have been my first clue.
He had some nice trees. Don't get me wrong. I had picked out a nice, short, good-smelling tree that I thought would be perfect in my living room--not taking up too much space but making a good statement. But Dad? He had other plans.
The tree I picked out cost approximately $30. Apparently, that was too rich for my father's blood. So he goes up to the gypsy king running the show and starts dickering.
"Is this really $30?"
"If that's what the tag says."
"Can't we go a little lower?"
"That's what the tag says."
My father apparently thought we lived near a Turkish bazaar where every price was negotiable. But then, his eyes lit up.
"Hey, what about if we take one of those," he said, pointing.
"$10."
My father, in his infinite wisdom, had found the perfect bargain. Trees filled the back of a large truck, still bundled and untrimmed, fresh off the farm. If we bought a tree that hadn't been gussied up yet, then we could get a bargain basement price.
By this point, I was so cold, I could've purchased Charlie Brown's tree and been perfectly happy, so I let my father pick one out and helped him tie the thing onto the roof of my Honda. Then we trundled home.
Next--Tools and Trees Don't Mix...
posted by Miss Head at
5:07 AM
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