Dad Versus the Balsam Fir

My Old Man was very simple in some respects; and one of those was in his tools. I think his basic philosophy was that if he couldn’t fix something with a hammer or a screwdriver, then he would ultimately “fix it good” with the hammer or the screwdriver.

Now, it wasn’t always an actual hammer or a screwdriver; if one or the other was missing, then a coin or a butter knife would fill in nicely for a screwdriver, or maybe the handle end of the screwdriver or any palm sized rock would become an adequate substitution for a hammer.

But in December of ’71 Dad took his annual battle in his war against the Christmas trees to a new level, and even employed new weapons to his arsenal.

It started on a rainy, gloomy Sunday. It had been decided a couple of weeks prior that we’d get the tree two Sundays before Christmas, and the day arrived under a shroud of heavy rain and fog. Dad suggested we put the selection off for a couple of days, but we knew that the car sales business filled up most of his nights and if we didn’t get the tree today then it would likely be next weekend before we got it, and by that time all of the good ones would be gone. So, after much whining by us kids Dad finally conceded, and packed Mom, Bethy, Amy and I into his ‘71 Ford Torino Squire station wagon for the Lion’s Club Christmas tree sale in the Super Duper parking lot.

Now normally this wasn’t a big part of the battle, but the weather made for a miserable experience, especially for Dad and I who had to drag the wet, sticky trees through the pouring rain for Mom, Amy & Beth’s approval. After several unsuccessful selections, Dad brought over a nearly 8-foot Balsam Fir. It was a beauty of a tree; full and round and tall and proud.

“Oh Dick! That tree’s way too big – we should pick something a little smaller,” Mom argued.

The man scowled and wiped the rain from his brow; he’d had enough of this torture. “It’s the best tree in the lot. And, I’ll have the guy cut off a piece of the trunk,” his eyes darted back and forth between the warm, dry, females, “C’mon, this one will do it – Ralpie and I are getting soaked.”

The edge in his voice told Mom that the selection had been made.

So it was decided; we got 3” cut off the trunk and the guy helped Dad tie the monstrosity to the roof rack of the car. We pulled into the driveway and beeped for Rick to come out and help us take it off the car, and dragged the tree under the sagging car port attached to the house. Mom hustled the kids in to get into some dry clothes while Rick and Dad planned the entry.

Now meanwhile the house was a cornucopia of Christmas sensations. Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters be-bopped through “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” while the smells of ginger bread wafted from the kitchen and mixed with comforting piquancy of the fire that glowed and popped in the fireplace in the back of the living room. The architect of the conflagration, my older brother Keith, was decorating the lighted wagon wheel that hung from the ceiling of the room with small pine branches and tiny Christmas lights and miniature red sleighs. Soon the traditional elf dolls would be added to the decoration, perfecting the scene.

This was Christmas Goodwin style. Nothing could break this moment.

I raced through the living room, stripping off the wet jacket and tossing it by the front door as I headed for my room by way of the warm kitchen. My sister Kathy lay across the couch, her head resting on her boyfriend Mark’s knee as she read. Mark is working on a plate of chocolate chip cookies, his curly hair drooping over his glasses. Neither look up at me as I pass; at this stage in my relationship with Mark I am nothing more than a pest. In the kitchen I find my sister April hard at work armed with rolling pin and apron, flour dotting her features as she beamed up at me, wax paper and raw gingerbread stretched across the counter top.

“Did you find a good tree?” she asked, licking a bit of the delicious concoction from a finger tip.

“Yeah it’s really really cool and really really big!” I exclaimed, “I gotta get changed so I can help with it.”

“Well don’t forget that once the cookies are cooled we will be decorating the gingerbread men!”

Like I could forget. April’s gingerbread men were like the fireworks at the Pop’s 4th of July concert or a “Shamrock Shake” at McDonald’s during St. Patrick’s Day; a singular item that crystallized a holiday, but without consuming it.

As I exploded from my room with my dry blue jeans and flannel shirt, I heard the sound of arguing from the living room. I skidded to a halt as I entered to find the Christmas tree lying in the center of the room like a giant beached whale, the red and green tree stand clinging crooked to the trunk, leaking its collected rain onto an old sheet that Mom had spread over the floor. Rick, Dad and Keith loomed over it, frustrated. Dad had removed his jacket, standing now in a clinging tee shirt, wet from the rain and perspiration.

Kathy glances up at Mark, then over at my Dad, and back again to her boyfriend. Without a word, she closes her book, and they both move to the dining room. Lying at their feet, our old Black Labrador Herman has the good instincts to follow suit.

Mom stood off to the side and in front of me, arms crossed. “I told you it was too big,”

Dad shot her a glance, and then over to Rick, “Guy, go out and get the axe from the shed”

“You’re not using that axe in my house!” objected Mom.

“Quiet Joyce – I am not going to break anything”

“No way. Rick, DO NOT get that axe.”

“Rick, GET THAT AXE.”

Now, of course Rick was in the classic “no win” situation. He knew Mom was right; swinging the axe in the house was a bad idea, but on the other hand he wasn’t eager to get that tree back out through the front door to do it outside. Besides, he heard Dad’s tone, and even as a 6’3” senior in high school, he knew better to cross him. Instead he stood confused, perhaps hoping to blend into the good-time Christmas vibes that were rapidly diminishing from the living room.

Keith quickly re-busied himself with his pine twigs as I slipped to the back of the room. I heard Amy and Beth wisely engage April in the kitchen in the business of cookie making.

Meanwhile, Bing sang of good will to man.

Mom and Dad stood glaring at each other for a moment, “Ok, fine. If you don’t want to use the axe I’ll get something else. There’s nothing wrong with the tree; I’ve just got to trim it a little bit.”

With that, he tossed on his overcoat and slammed through the door outside, muttering barely audible profanities.

Mom motioned at my brother, “Rick, go out and help your father. Make sure you two numskulls don’t wreck the living room.”

10 minutes later, after Nat King Cole had replaced Bing, Dad and Rick re-emerged with a mini-hack saw, a hammer, and the usual spool of fishing wire that was necessary for tree-installations at our house (how else do you keep the tree up when the cats climb what is an unsteady structure to begin with?). Dad barked instructions at Rick, imploring the teen to wrap both arms around middle of the tree and lift, exposing it’s underbelly to the crazed tannenbaum terrorist.

Cussing in a more than audible way, the old man trapped the end of the tree between his arm and his torso and began rapidly sawing another 6” from the bottom of the tree.

Now, anyone who has ever worked with a hacksaw already understands that it just isn’t built for a 4”, sap filled tree trunk. Especially a hacksaw that had already been abused in the past, cutting everything from metal to rubber to a woman’s high heel. The old man sweated heavily as he worked through the bark, then rubbing violently against the inner wood, with no more success than if he were employing a rainbow trout. He exclaimed another obscenity as he hurled the useless saw against the floor.

“Dick stop it! You are making a fool of yourself”

“Oh be quiet – I know what I am doing!”

“Yeah, you know that you are embarrassing yourself in front of your children!”

My brothers and I all looked away – no children here.

Dad turned to Rick and grunted that he’d be right back and headed out through the kitchen, rustling and slamming sounds following in his wake. Mom looked at Rick as if to implore him to fix the problem, Rick shrugged his shoulders while Keith headed outside to find some more twigs for the wagon wheel.

A minute later Dad stormed back in the room with IT:

The electric carving knife.

“Tell me you are not thinking about using that on the tree,” Mom objected.

“This will do fine,” Dad insisted as he plugged the electronic culinary device into the outlet, “You’ll see.”

“Oh Dick – you’ll ruin i-”

But before Mom could finish her complaint the motor buzzed on and the dual blades began cutting their way into the wood. Rick couldn’t help it – a wide smile crept across his face; the humor of the situation causing him to betray the concerned face he had employed since the escapade started. He briefly made eye contact with Mom, who wasn’t smiling, and looked away with a frown. Meanwhile, the device labored and smoked as the old man worked it around the base of the tree, pausing only to pry sap from the double blade.

Surprisingly, Dad was making progress, alternating between the electric device and the overmatched hacksaw. Sweat poured freely from his pores as he wrestled through the last quarter of the wood, preparing himself to remove another 8” of tree from the holiday symbol. Flashing a satisfied grin at my mother, he broke the rest of the trunk off this his beefy hand and extended it to her, “See? Easy.”

My Mother grunted and turned away towards the kitchen, “…and just what are you going to cut the roast with today? A chain saw?”

Dad ignored her as he and Rick struggled to stand the tree upright – success! We had 4-5 inches to spare.

“Ralphie – get over here and get the stand under the tree while your brother and I get it upright. Ok, now move it over… perfect!”

We jointly struggled for a few minutes, maneuvering the tree back and forth as we tried to force it into the stand. The old man directed me to stand up as he took my place on the floor, lying on his side, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, muttering more complaints and expletives. Finally, Dad’s realization was complete; he’d removed too much; now the bottom branches were preventing what was left of the stump to enter the stand.

So, Dad broke off a couple of bottom branches, but still no luck; without removing a major level of the very full bottom branches, there was no way to get the tree into the stand. The big man laid on his side for a few minutes, soaking in the situation. The tree wasn’t the only thing you could cut in the room; the tension was palatable.

Suddenly, with an “ah ha!,” the Old Man scrambled to his feet and forced the dissected tree stump into my oldest sibling’s hand.

“Big Guy, hold both ends of this tree part against the TV so I can cut it in half. Ralphie – run out to the shed and get me a couple of nails.”

I came back into the house just as the electric knife bounced against the edge of the television set as it cut through the remainder of the stump. The old man grinned madly as he re-took his place on the floor, asked for a nail, and proceeded to drive it though the stump back into the tree. The stump split a couple of times, but by the time he was done Dad had managed to nail three individual pieces of the split stump back on to the tree; just enough to get the trunk deep enough into the tree stand. Keith was summoned back into the room and the four of us carefully stood the shaky tree into its stand.

The tree fell over only once more that day, but we were able to get the lights strung and garland and ornaments hung and fishing line affixed, and as darkness ensued the tree glimmered brightly, cooling tempers and adding to the growing festive aura.

As for the meal that Sunday? Well, I’ve had mesquite grilled New York Strip in Dallas, Beef Wellington with Dijon Greens in Chicago, and Peppercorn Porterhouse in New York. I’ve eaten at some of the finest restaurants up and down the east coast, but I’ll always maintain that the pot roast with a hint of balsam fir my family enjoyed that day at 7 Pine Grove Road as the most memorable meal I’ve ever had.