My Father's Ugly Aluminum Tree

            Christmas for me personally, is the smell of pine, a real tree, with shimmering lights, garland, special ornaments made by my children and grandchildren, and new ornaments.

            I vowed a long time ago that I would always have a real tree, preferably one that I would cut down with my family; a tradition that my family and I still follow to this day. A Saturday or Sunday is chosen in December and those family members, who are available, drive to one of the tree farms in the country.  We pile into the tractor-pulled-wagon and sit on the bales of hay. The tractor pulls along and drops us off where the Christmas trees are growing. We stumble off of the wagon, with the little ones, whooping and running toward one tree after another excitedly proclaiming, “Ooh, cut this one, no cut that one, how about the other one!”

            It never fails, it is usually the first tree that we like but we have to go through the ritual of attempting to cut a tree, when another shout arises, “Wait, this is the tree we really want.” We usually end up going back to our first selection.

My sons haul the trees back to the pick-up point, toss them up on the wagon, and we ride back to pay for them. With the trees secured on our vehicles, we head for a family lunch at a restaurant that is close by.

            But, when I was a kid, we had moved from our hometown of Utica, New York, to Cleveland, Ohio. Christmas was the time we traveled back to visit the relatives. We might have our own tree but we opened our Christmas presents before we actually celebrated Christmas because my father was the one who couldn’t wait until Christmas to rip off the decorative ribbons and wrapping paper to see what was hidden from his prying eyes.

            Sometime in the 50s an awful thing happened in our house, awful for us but not for my Dad. The aluminum tree hit the stores, stole my father’s heart, and became a mainstay in my parent’s living room. I can still remember how excited my Dad became when it was time to set up the tree. He painstakingly laid the pieces of the tree on the floor, set the main pole in the stand. Each individual branch would go into the holes. The tip of the branches sort of puffed out like a powder puff with curled fingers. My Dad sorted the colored balls, and placed these strategically throughout the tree, alternating the colors of reds, blues, and greens. But that wasn’t the end. He set up a rotating colored wheel with a spotlight shining in front of it. When my father finished with all of his tree decorating, he would turn off all the lights in the living room, sit in his favorite chair with his legs stretched out on the ottoman and watch the colored wheel turn the aluminum tree red, blue and green. He literally worshipped that tree. He gazed at it lovingly, just as I imagined he once looked at my mother. I hated that tree. And that was when I swore to myself that I would never own an aluminum tree or any artificial tree!

            After my father died in 1991, my stepmother still put the tree up for a few years. She loved it as well. Eventually she stopped putting the tree up and stored it away. When we cleaned out the attic of my parent’s house, I inherited the tree, rotating wheel and spotlight as well. My oldest son always said that he wanted it. I brought the tree back from Cleveland to Pittsburgh and put it in my garage. My son was married at the time that I told him the tree was in a box in my garage. He hemmed and hawed, and finally said that his wife would kill him if he ever brought it home. I finally threw it away.

               The past year, while visiting my cousin, Netta, in Utica, and sharing family stories, I told her about my Dad’s aluminum Christmas tree. I laughed when I told my cousin about my contempt for that tree. Her face was unreadable as she walked out of the room only to return with a photo of her Christmas tree. There it was in color…déjà vu… an identical, ugly aluminum tree. A chill went up my spine as she whispered, “I love this tree.”

My Father's Ugly Aluminum Christmas Tree

            Christmas for me personally, is the smell of pine, a real tree, with shimmering lights, garland, special ornaments made by my children and grandchildren, and new ornaments.

            I vowed a long time ago that I would always have a real tree, preferably one that I would cut down with my family; a tradition that my family and I still follow to this day. A Saturday or Sunday is chosen in December and those family members, who are available, drive to one of the tree farms in the country.  We pile into the tractor-pulled-wagon and sit on the bales of hay. The tractor pulls along and drops us off where the Christmas trees are growing. We stumble off of the wagon, with the little ones, whooping and running toward one tree after another excitedly proclaiming, “Ooh, cut this one, no cut that one, how about the other one!”

            It never fails, it is usually the first tree that we like but we have to go through the ritual of attempting to cut a tree, when another shout arises, “Wait, this is the tree we really want.” We usually end up going back to our first selection.

My sons haul the trees back to the pick-up point, toss them up on the wagon, and we ride back to pay for them. With the trees secured on our vehicles, we head for a family lunch at a restaurant that is close by.

            But, when I was a kid, we had moved from our hometown of Utica, New York, to Cleveland, Ohio. Christmas was the time we traveled back to visit the relatives. We might have our own tree but we opened our Christmas presents before we actually celebrated Christmas because my father was the one who couldn’t wait until Christmas to rip off the decorative ribbons and wrapping paper to see what was hidden from his prying eyes.

            Sometime in the 50s an awful thing happened in our house, awful for us but not for my Dad. The aluminum tree hit the stores, stole my father’s heart, and became a mainstay in my parent’s living room. I can still remember how excited my Dad became when it was time to set up the tree. He painstakingly laid the pieces of the tree on the floor, set the main pole in the stand. Each individual branch would go into the holes. The tip of the branches sort of puffed out like a powder puff with curled fingers. My Dad sorted the colored balls, and placed these strategically throughout the tree, alternating the colors of reds, blues, and greens. But that wasn’t the end. He set up a rotating colored wheel with a spotlight shining in front of it. When my father finished with all of his tree decorating, he would turn off all the lights in the living room, sit in his favorite chair with his legs stretched out on the ottoman and watch the colored wheel turn the aluminum tree red, blue and green. He literally worshipped that tree. He gazed at it lovingly, just as I imagined he once looked at my mother. I hated that tree. And that was when I swore to myself that I would never own an aluminum tree or any artificial tree!

            After my father died in 1991, my stepmother still put the tree up for a few years. She loved it as well. Eventually she stopped putting the tree up and stored it away. When we cleaned out the attic of my parent’s house, I inherited the tree, rotating wheel and spotlight as well. My oldest son always said that he wanted it. I brought the tree back from Cleveland to Pittsburgh and put it in my garage. My son was married at the time that I told him the tree was in a box in my garage. He hemmed and hawed, and finally said that his wife would kill him if he ever brought it home. I finally threw it away.

               The past year, while visiting my cousin, Netta, in Utica, and sharing family stories, I told her about my Dad’s aluminum Christmas tree. I laughed when I told my cousin about my contempt for that tree. Her face was unreadable as she walked out of the room only to return with a photo of her Christmas tree. There it was in color…déjà vu… an identical, ugly aluminum tree. A chill went up my spine as she whispered, “I love this tree.”