Our first Christmas, Angeldimples and I were so busy with school and work that we didn’t have time to think about decorating. I mean, December came along, and kept coming along. Husband was taking finals and I was learning the ropes at my new job–as a customer support operator at a software company called WordPerfect Corporation. (Remember them? *sniff* I feel so wistful when I think about them. Such a lovely piece of software. Such a lovely company. But I digress.) And we just didn’t have time to think about the holidays.
We’d done some shopping–I’d bought Puppyknees the requisite ugly sweater and he’d bought me the requisite box of chocolate. I’d baked a pie and had a misadventure with that. But that really was all we’d done. I hadn’t even thought about a Christmas tree. We had our noses to the proverbial grindstone and that is all we saw. Spent fourteen hours a day at it, came home, ate, and passed out on the bed. Only to wake up and start it again.We weren’t too bothered by this. I mean it was our first Christmas. There’d be plenty of others.
Well, my dad was bothered. He was bothered plenty. He called us about two days before Christmas to wish us a happy holiday and see how we were doing. We weren’t rich by any standard, but we were in luuuv, and that was pretty much enough in my book. I figured we were a bit busy this holiday, but doing fine.
We had a pleasant conversation. I told him how things were going. He asked if we were ready for Christmas, and I said: “Yes, except for a tree.”
“What do you mean, except for a tree? Don’t you have it up yet?”
There was something in his tone that made me think this was slightly appalling. What was he going to think with what I said next?
“Um. Haven’t bought it yet.”
“What?” he exclaimed. “What do you mean you haven’t bought a tree yet? It’s two days before Christmas! You have to have a tree.”
Well, we were busy and poor, and I told him so. I tried to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. We finished our conversation with me restraining a bit of a pout and him restraining a bit of a lecture about the joys of the season and starting traditions with my new family, etc. etc. I didn’t really think about it much the rest of that night.
Okay that’s a lie. It’s all I thought about. We were sad and pathetic little married people. What kind of a wife was I? What kind of a marriage did we have if we didn’t bother to get a Christmas tree? Were we dead inside? Were we destined for failure? Would our lives together be an endless slog of Christmas tree-less misery? I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Now, before I tell you the rest of this, you need to know that my dad grew up dirt poor. Literally. Their first farm in Montana had a dirt floor and no electricity. Which also means it had no running water. And while it improved over the years they never were what you’d call well off. This type of upbringing has an affect on people. And the one that it had on my dad was to make him very careful with his money. Very. To the point that he doesn’t buy a lot unless he needs it, and whatever he buys had better be on sale. Even now that he’s retired Air Force and retired university staff and is therefore doing fine, the man thinks thrice before he buys anything. There weren’t a lot of frivolous purchases in my childhood.
So, I got through the night and most of the next day with a dull sad little feeling of loneliness and possible failure. I hadn’t gone out and gotten a tree. We didn’t have that much money anyway. But I could have done something to make things festive. I had a seriously festive Christmas background. What was my problem?
I hadn’t decided what to do yet, and was worrying that most tree lots would be out of trees by now, when my doorbell rang. I sighed and went to answer it. And there, filling the doorway, was a tree. A big, fat, beautiful, fresh, eight-foot tree. I gasped. Was someone giving this to us? There was no one else there that I could see. Just the tree. Shock and joy fluttered through me and I tried to imagine who this was from. Then the branches shook and I heard “Ho, ho, ho!” from the porch. Next thing I knew the tree was shoving it’s way into my apartment with my dad behind it.
“It’s Christmas,” he said to my stunned little self. “You should have a tree.”
My husband moseyed in behind dad, looking pleased. He’d been in on it. But it was my dad’s idea all the way, and he had paid for it. A bit of a sacrifice for him.
I was really happy that year. Especially since this wasn’t the kind of thing dad usually did. I tried to reconcile the gesture with the hard working and very frugal man I’d spent my childhood with. It was a bit of silly joy that I’d never really seen in him.
It all came together a bit later when I asked my husband how they’d found a tree so late and how expensive it had been. “Oh, we found a lot that had over-ordered. They had a ton left over. They were giving them away for a dollar apiece.”
“Ah,” I said to him. “That makes sense.” It was still a festive and sweet gesture from my father, though, and I imagined that it had been hard for him. My husband assuaged those fears too when he finished his answer.
“Your dad talked them down to 89-cents.”
So. Now I understood why dad was so happy. He’d done something nice. He’d pulled off an unusual surprise. And he’d gotten a great deal. It was a tremendous Christmas.
For both of us.
And it still makes me laugh to think about it.
Well, my dad was bothered. He was bothered plenty. He called us about two days before Christmas to wish us a happy holiday and see how we were doing. We weren’t rich by any standard, but we were in luuuv, and that was pretty much enough in my book. I figured we were a bit busy this holiday, but doing fine.
We had a pleasant conversation. I told him how things were going. He asked if we were ready for Christmas, and I said: “Yes, except for a tree.”
“What do you mean, except for a tree? Don’t you have it up yet?”
There was something in his tone that made me think this was slightly appalling. What was he going to think with what I said next?
“Um. Haven’t bought it yet.”
“What?” he exclaimed. “What do you mean you haven’t bought a tree yet? It’s two days before Christmas! You have to have a tree.”
Well, we were busy and poor, and I told him so. I tried to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. We finished our conversation with me restraining a bit of a pout and him restraining a bit of a lecture about the joys of the season and starting traditions with my new family, etc. etc. I didn’t really think about it much the rest of that night.
Okay that’s a lie. It’s all I thought about. We were sad and pathetic little married people. What kind of a wife was I? What kind of a marriage did we have if we didn’t bother to get a Christmas tree? Were we dead inside? Were we destined for failure? Would our lives together be an endless slog of Christmas tree-less misery? I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Now, before I tell you the rest of this, you need to know that my dad grew up dirt poor. Literally. Their first farm in Montana had a dirt floor and no electricity. Which also means it had no running water. And while it improved over the years they never were what you’d call well off. This type of upbringing has an affect on people. And the one that it had on my dad was to make him very careful with his money. Very. To the point that he doesn’t buy a lot unless he needs it, and whatever he buys had better be on sale. Even now that he’s retired Air Force and retired university staff and is therefore doing fine, the man thinks thrice before he buys anything. There weren’t a lot of frivolous purchases in my childhood.
So, I got through the night and most of the next day with a dull sad little feeling of loneliness and possible failure. I hadn’t gone out and gotten a tree. We didn’t have that much money anyway. But I could have done something to make things festive. I had a seriously festive Christmas background. What was my problem?
I hadn’t decided what to do yet, and was worrying that most tree lots would be out of trees by now, when my doorbell rang. I sighed and went to answer it. And there, filling the doorway, was a tree. A big, fat, beautiful, fresh, eight-foot tree. I gasped. Was someone giving this to us? There was no one else there that I could see. Just the tree. Shock and joy fluttered through me and I tried to imagine who this was from. Then the branches shook and I heard “Ho, ho, ho!” from the porch. Next thing I knew the tree was shoving it’s way into my apartment with my dad behind it.
“It’s Christmas,” he said to my stunned little self. “You should have a tree.”
My husband moseyed in behind dad, looking pleased. He’d been in on it. But it was my dad’s idea all the way, and he had paid for it. A bit of a sacrifice for him.
I was really happy that year. Especially since this wasn’t the kind of thing dad usually did. I tried to reconcile the gesture with the hard working and very frugal man I’d spent my childhood with. It was a bit of silly joy that I’d never really seen in him.
It all came together a bit later when I asked my husband how they’d found a tree so late and how expensive it had been. “Oh, we found a lot that had over-ordered. They had a ton left over. They were giving them away for a dollar apiece.”
“Ah,” I said to him. “That makes sense.” It was still a festive and sweet gesture from my father, though, and I imagined that it had been hard for him. My husband assuaged those fears too when he finished his answer.
“Your dad talked them down to 89-cents.”
So. Now I understood why dad was so happy. He’d done something nice. He’d pulled off an unusual surprise. And he’d gotten a great deal. It was a tremendous Christmas.
For both of us.
And it still makes me laugh to think about it.
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