HOLIDAY

My Father’s Flair for Decorating Included Gigantic Christmas Trees

Our memories are of trees so large they barely fit in our home

Photo by D A V I D S O N L U N A on Unsplash

My first recollection of Christmas is of my father pulling a huge tree through the door to our living room and laying it on the floor where the couch had been earlier.

Back then, we lived in a two-room apartment in Brooklyn. My crib was on the wall adjacent to the door — the one a tree had just come through. That room was a living room by day and a bedroom by night, with the couch opening into a bed for my parents and new baby sister.

I remember him cutting the cord off this long, tied-up tree and watching it grow wider before my eyes. Big boxes mysteriously appeared in the other corner, which turned out to be tangled lights and ornaments.

Although curious, I was too young to ask questions; yet I do remember him putting the tree into a metal stand that had been placed on the floor, and my mother impatiently telling him how crooked it was until it was screwed in tightly and perfectly straight.

Then she laughed as he wrapped a cord 2/3 up around the tree’s trunk and tacked it to the wall, inching his way behind it with a hammer and a few thumbtacks in hand while trying not to knock it over.

Imagine a young child viewing this for the first time from her crib! In time, I learned it was a process my father engaged in every year.

Why such a large tree?

As predictable as he was, he brought home the largest tree he could find, barely squeezed it through the door, sawed a piece off the top because it was taller than the ceiling, and inevitably cut his finger.

The only other trees I’d ever seen were the ones along the edge of our block. When I asked my mom where this one came from, she explained that the parking lot around the corner turned into a Christmas tree lot during the holiday season.

Then, I had to ask, “Why does he buy such a large tree?” The answer was, “The taller the tree, the wider the bottom!” Something my father loved, as it left him more room for ornaments — and it was cheaper to buy a tree no one else wanted.

As I grew older, it all started making sense as I remembered the cursing, tree sawing, sliced fingers, and the tree almost falling over each year. And, of course, there was the lengthy ritual of detangling the lights, during which he often expressed his frustrations with a stream of expletives.

“How is it that the lights were always tangled?” I wondered. Did they just reach the point where they couldn’t stand the sight of that awful tree hogging so much space, pushing their bed up against a wall, and forcing them into hastily packing at the end of the season?

In addition to untangling them, he kept a box of extra bulbs to replace any that had burned out. They were not the smaller, more energy-efficient bulbs of today. They were huge. He would sit on the floor and carefully remove each bulb, replacing it with a new one until all the lights were illuminated.

Those strands of light bulbs must have been heavy and bulky; it was another mystery how he managed to wrap them around the tree. I must have fallen asleep by that point and don’t remember. I’m sure my mother was back in the kitchen bathing my sister, who was missing all the fun.

Bring out the ornaments

The first night I witnessed this event, I remember him climbing on a chair and adding a star that lit up — another reason to cut a piece off the top of the tree so the star fit.

Then he carefully placed his set of bubble lights on the tree. They would become one of the most vivid memories for me. He treasured and protected these bulbs, wrapping them in cloth during storage and never letting them fall on the floor or become tangled.

They were shaped like candles of various colors, and once they warmed up, the liquid inside would bubble and boil. “Don’t ever touch any of those candle lights,” he warned many times. “They’ll burn your fingers.”

There was no need for a warning. I never wanted to go anywhere near them, much less touch them. They always seemed to be sitting precariously on the edges of several branches, looking as if they would fall off if I even breathed on them.

Once the lights were glowing and the candles flickering, the boxes of glass ornaments, carefully tucked away in a corner until my father was ready to hang them, were brought out.

If they were not, I’m sure in the chaos, he would have tripped over them, fallen onto them, or knocked them out of the window, which he opened once he started sweating as he worked diligently on our tree.

By now, the room looked like a bargain basement after a massive explosion.

One box at a time would be opened to reveal carefully packed ornaments in little sections of cardboard due to their delicate nature. They were treasured keepsakes handed down through the family, ranging in size from small two-inch to larger four-inch transparent glass balls, each shimmering in a variety of colors.

Some had stripes, others were decorated with glued-on glitter, and once they got their hooks, they were carefully arranged on the tree. There was so much of it that I couldn’t help but wonder where it was all stored during the year, given our apartment had only two small closets.

Finishing touches

Watching my father working on the tree was like witnessing an artist creating a complicated masterpiece. However, as I got older, although I appreciated the effort, I decided it would be too much work for me and that I may never put up a Christmas tree of my own.

As a side note, I’ve put one together many times and still do, but I can never match the beauty and finesse of his showpieces.

Those were wonderful memories of the big trees adorned with warm lights and plenty of tinsel, because, as my father always said, a tree wasn’t truly dressed until streams of tinsel were draped over it.

I suppose tinsel isn’t that popular anymore, either, along with boiling bubble lights. I stopped using it a long time ago for obvious reasons. Cleaning tinsel off the floor was a hassle — it clung to everything and would turn up months later in the strangest spots, not to mention it was probably flammable.

The tree was probably a fire hazard, especially after sitting in the house for weeks, drying out and wearing scorching candles and big, hot-to-the-touch electric lights. How the wall never caught fire is a mystery to me.

Where did it go?

I was aware the trees suddenly disappeared, but how did my father get them out the door in their expanded, dried-out condition, down the long marble staircase in the hallway, and out the building’s front doors? And then what? That’s still a mystery.

I should have asked. He must have waited until my sister and I were sleeping, because I only remember seeing trails of tinsel and pine needles leading from the corner of the living room out the door and into the hall.

Aside from the tree being oversized, overly bright, excessively hot, and leaving scads of debris on the floor that my mother would later clean up, he created one of the most beautiful and memorable Christmas trees I’d ever seen.

He was a true artist at creating beauty, and our Christmas trees were always breathtaking works of art, the memories of which will reside in our hearts forever.

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