Getting the Tree

I’ve been stopping at a Christmas Tree place across from an old style gas station, where they still work on cars and sell you tires, kitty corner from a big Catholic Church, for thirteen years at least.  We quit cutting our own trees when the kids were out of the house.

Twenty years ago maybe we added a room with a high ceiling onto the house and began buying tall trees. Frazier Firs come tall, so it was usually one of those.

The guy on the lot selling trees all these years was the same guy.  Sometime soon after Thanksgiving, I would stop and there he was.  Although we talked but once a year, we were always glad to see each other.  At least I was glad to see him.  I’m pretty sure it was reciprocal.  We talked about our families, sort of recapped our years.  One year he had his grandson working with him.  Quietly he told me

“He’s going through a rough patch.  I’m trying to help him out some.”

After that I always inquired about that grandson’s well being.  In turn he was amazed to  learn that my kids spent time out of the country.  He  always asked where they were and how they were doing.  Come to think of it we rarely talked about ourselves.    

I never knew his name, but for the longest time he would see me walking towards the little shack on skids that served as his office, and before I could say hello, I would hear his voice boom out

“Mr. McClure!”

Maybe he remembered my name from the checks.

One year as he and I struggled to get a big tree on the roof of one of the old Buicks he came up with an idea.

“Why don’t you let me just throw this big bastard in the pickup and bring it to your house?”

“That would be good.  I didn’t know you delivered.”

“I don’t.  But it would be a lot easier.  I mean after all, you’ve bought a lot of trees from me.”

“Come to think of it, I have.  I think I’ll take you up on that deal.”

We shook on it and smiled.

That had been our deal for a long time.  I also bought pine boughs from him and made a wreath for the front of the garage.  I’m not sure he charged me.  He’d just give me a price for everything.  One nice transaction as the holidays approached.  One small ritual to which I’d grown accustomed.

I pulled up yesterday and there appeared to be no one there.  I walked cautiously to the little shack, poked my head in, and encountered a young man texting intently on his smart phone.  I cleared my throat.  He looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah.  I need one of your tall Frazier Firs.”

“Those are tall ones up front.  We got a few laying down up there too.”

He put his phone down, pulled on his jacket, and walked with me to see them.

I never know how to describe old people anymore, especially to people younger than me.  I’m on my way to 67 and still don't identify as old.  Nothing else but to say it I guess.

“I expected to see the old guy.  He’s been here every year.”

It has to be very ironic to hear the words “old guy” come from a person with a white beard and obvious age.  The young man looked at me seriously and said

“He’s no longer with us.”

“Not selling trees?”

“No.  Passed away.”

“Is that right?”

It didn’t seem right to me at all.  Twelve months ago he was an energetic healthy man not much older than me.  Big smile, fat cheeks, bright eyes. 

“What did he die of?”

“I really can’t say.  I just know he’s gone.”

We walked to where the big trees were.  They were not exactly what I wanted, either real tall or too short.  I bought a tall one figuring I could shorten it up with the chain saw.

“Do you have a truck?”

“No.  I was hoping you’d deliver it to my house.”

“We don’t deliver.”

“I know.  The old guy always delivered it though.  Is there any way you could do that?  I’d pay extra if you want.”

“Well I don’t have a truck, but his son Ronnie does.  He’s going to be here this weekend.  Yeah, I guess we could.”

He wrote down my name, address, and phone number.  I was starting over with a new tree guy who knew me not at all.

I have a steel ring up in the garage attic I get down and tie  pine boughs to with wire.  To that I  fasten lights and a bow, get on the extension ladder,hang it under the peak of my garage roof facing the street, run an extension cord to it and light it up.  It's nice looking at night.  I’d get the kids in on the project.  I missed a couple years when they couldn’t get home before the holidays.  I’m not sure the kids care much but my elderly neighbor across the street is always disappointed when she sees its missing. 

I noticed they were selling wreaths.

“Give me that big wreath with the red bow too.”

As I age I spend more and more on convenience.

Everything changes all the time.  I’ve always known that and embraced it.  I thrive on change in a way.  At work I always looked for change and tried to stay ahead of it, urging my staff to accept it as opportunity and growth.  I pride myself on adapting to what life offers. 

But pride, which some call a deadly sin, can come back to haunt you.  Of all the agents of change, the biggest and most profound is death.  Death is the ultimate change.  Intellectually I know that people die every day and more are born to replace them.  The planet swells with people.  The community changes.  Our friendships and acquaintances change.  Life goes on.

But the impact of death to those close to me and even those not so close continues to surprise me.  Small and large doses of grief visit me and stay.  I’m doing my best to get used to it, but I have to report its not going well.  Death may be part of a cycle of change that is inevitable, but it doesn’t feel that way.  It feels like loss.  Straight loss.  Some are comforted with the belief that people don't die but simply change form.  That doesn't help me.

Next year at the tree place will be better.  I’ll know what to expect.  But I hope I never stop missing my friend, even though I don’t know his name.  He meant something to me, and I didn’t realize how much till he wasn’t there.