The year was 1955 and I
was 12 years old. We lived in the house I was born in in the upstairs back
bedroom on Main Street in Medford, NJ. It was a couple of days before Christmas,
and my father’s company was on strike, and in addition, he was suffering from a
severe case of Bursitis in his shoulder to the extent that he was pacing the
floor in agony.
Outside a pretty hefty
wind was blowing along with a heavy snow storm stirring. We had not gotten our
usual Christmas tree from the Pine Barrens because my father had not been in
any condition to make it happen. Finances were tight for my parents because of
the strike and it looked like it was going to be a pretty bleak holiday. We all
had pretty much resigned ourselves to what was.
I think my mother had
done some shopping, but I don’t think very much. I don’t remember whether or
not I had asked for anything in particular for Christmas or maybe they just told
me not to expect much. By that time, the idea of there being such a person as Santa
Claus was something I had outgrown, so there was no hope that gifts would
magically appear under the tree that we didn’t have anyway.
But there was a moment—an
incredible moment—when my mother suddenly said to me, “Jack, let’s you and I go
down to Harriet’s and get a Christmas tree.” Harriet’s was a local gas station
down the hill and across the creek. They also had a little store where you
could get important things like bread and ice cream. That year they were also
selling Christmas trees.
Now you have to know that
my mother was a small, somewhat stout, short woman, barely five feet tall if
that. She had a lot of stamina and was a hard worker around the house, but
trying to imagine the two of us in this severely windy snowstorm going down the
hill to fetch a tree didn’t seem reasonable. And yet, she was dead-serious about
that. So, we bundled up and headed to Harriet’s. With all my skepticism and
dread of going out into the storm, at the same time I was also delighted with
the thought that we were going to have a tree after all.
There were only a few
left, but we found one that would do very nicely. My mother hadn’t brought any
money with her—probably because there wasn’t any, but we knew the owner very
well and he knew our circumstances. So my mother asked if we could pay for it
later, and he said that we didn’t have to—it’s all ours, free and clear! In a world that at times seems very cruel
and harsh, in these days in particular, that memory is worthy of a Christmas carol
heart and I’m humming one as I write this.
We managed to get the
tree back up the hill, and my mother and I, with some help and advice from my
father, put the tree up and decorated it with all those very familiar glass ornaments
and tinsel, and set up the village underneath. Christmas had come into our
house thanks to my mother’s determination and to the kindness of the man at
Harriet’s gas station.
I don’t remember what I got
for Christmas—no doubt something that my parents’ couldn’t afford. But the trek
for a Christmas tree remains one of the most important and perhaps favorite memories of my
childhood.
