December 1971, Troy, New York

By Jill Bonnier

Christmas 1971 was jingling merrily toward us and my father was still out of work. He had been so for many weeks.

Savings were gone; help from family and friends, exhausted.

Daily at dawn daddy left the house searching for work.

Every night he returned, acting as if all were still right with the world. But the worry clouding his eyes betrayed him.

Worse, sometimes during the night I could hear my dear mother sobbing.

I was 10 years old and my brother, Nick, was 8. We had earned some money shoveling snow; we’d quickly determined that, this year, we would provide our family with a Christmas tree.

At the tree lot, I tried my best to charm the dealer.

“Mister,” I cooed, fixing him with my most earnest expression, “we’ve got $4 to spend. Will you help us find a good tree?’”

“Here,” he grunted, pointing to a small group of trees, “take your pick for four bucks.”

Apparently, my charm had been lost on him. This was a sorry bunch of trees.

We finally managed to select the least anemic bundle, pay the-not-so-kindly dealer, and load the tree onto Nick’s sled.

When my brother and I arrived home we were surprised to find mom and dad laughing in the kitchen. It had been a while since either of them genuinely smiled. Now, they were almost giddy.

Daddy had found a job - a good one! Not only that, his new boss thoughtfully granted him an advance in pay!

Everyone suddenly began speaking at once. We also engaged in an inordinate amount of hugging. Each of us instinctively understood that the memory of this moment - this shared family triumph - was one we’d carry with us forever.

Eventually Nick and I proudly told our parents about the Christmas tree we’d bought with our own money. For a few seconds, they stared at each other.

Then my father announced, “That’s wonderful, kids! I’ve got something to do in the garage. As soon as I’m through, we’ll trim the tree together.”

Before long, dad joined us in the living room, and we made that scrawny old tree look almost pretty. In fact, daddy actually had a tear in his eye when we stepped back to admire our handiwork.

Years later, Nick and I learned the “something” my father had to do that joyful night was to dispose of a very expensive Christmas tree he’d bought earlier and stored in our garage.

Jill Bonnier is a small town girl who owns a medium-size business and has a big-time jones for the written word. While at this point writing can only be an avocation, she hopes to some day make it more.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, December 18th, 2006 | Email This Post

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