Christmas is such a wonderful day that, just like the Olympics, it should be held every year. But not everyone enjoys it. In the classic Dickens story, ‘A Christmas Carol’, Ebenezer Scrooge improves his attitude to the Yuletide season after being visited by the spirit of a former business partner and the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. For me, such paranormal activity is unnecessary. Even without a visitation in by some sprite with a point to prove and little respect for the laws of trespass, I have long been haunted by the ghost of Christmas past.
Christmas is such a wonderful day that, just like the Olympics, it should be held every year. But not everyone enjoys it. In the classic Dickens story, ‘A Christmas Carol’, Ebenezer Scrooge improves his attitude to the Yuletide season after being visited by the spirit of a former business partner and the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. For me, such paranormal activity is unnecessary. Even without a visitation in by some sprite with a point to prove and little respect for the laws of trespass, I have long been haunted by the ghost of Christmas past.
Christmas is a time for goodwill towards men, with the possible exception of Justin Bieber. But even leaving ‘the Bieb’ to one side, there is a dark side to this season of merriment. For twenty years, I have not hung a single Christmas decoration in my house. It means that the Nativity scene is nowhere to be seen. There are no baubles, no guiding star; not even the merest scrap of tinsel or sprig of mistletoe. Worst of all, in all my adult years I have never owned a Christmas tree.
We had grown up with a plastic tree. Once, it had seemed gigantic but this was attributable to the fact that we were very small. How we loved the plastic shimmer of its artificial foliage as hazardously discounted Christmas lights illuminated our living room. But such beauty cannot last forever; a point made very clear by the warranty. Even though it was plastic, it still shed its synthetic pine needles as surely as any deciduous autumnal shrub until all that was left looked like an aerial. Next Christmas, we could either get another plastic tree or ‘go real’.
There are several ways you can get a real Christmas tree. You could be unimaginative a buy one from any number of reputable and not so reputable outlets. Or, to save a few bucks you could grow your own. Although the ‘homegrown’ option sounds all well and good, the reality is starkly different. To peak at just the right time, you’ve pretty much got to start preparing on Boxing Day. But if neither of these options appeals to you, there is another alternative – you could find one.
Surveillance generally began in late September / early October. Family trips in the Nissan E-20 were often interrupted by sightings of pine trees, as a careful note was made of their coordinates. We would bide our time.
When it came to gardening, my dad always did his best work at night. If he spotted a stray flower by the side of the road, it was not uncommon for him to return in the dead hours with a bucket, a shovel and a flashlight. His ‘Agapanthus runs’ became the stuff of legend. It was probably inevitable that he would take the same approach to Christmas.
Our father did not so much procure a Christmas tree as he did take one hostage. On a moonless night in December, we would be put to bed just as our father was putting on his balaclava and checking his map. Sharpening the blade of his axe, he would bid us goodnight. But while getting a Christmas tree under the veil of darkness has certain advantages in terms of evading detection, the results can be uneven. Often, the hapless sapling he’d plucked from the earth in the dead of night would appear to be suffering an illness, its needles rapidly falling out. By Christmas day, the tree would be utterly bald. It was hard not to feel sorry for it.
There comes a time when the ghosts of the past must be banished. This year, I decided to get a tree, firmly resolving to pay for one rather than snatch it from somebody’s paddock. We headed out on the moral high road to a major department store. Having never bought decorations before, I was shocked to learn the store had its own Christmas section. Playing Justin Bieber’s ‘Under the Mistletoe’ on a continuous loop, I discovered that the little pop moppet even has his own range of Christmas decorations. Tempted as I was to get a ‘Bieber Bauble’, I had bigger problems – the store had sold out of Christmas trees. Suddenly, I was confronted with a choice. Either I could drive another hour to a different store with plenty of stock or I could borrow my father’s axe. We immediately hit the road.
My requirements for a tree were simple – I wanted something large enough to trouble low flying aircraft but not so glitzy as to look like it’s about to audition for a supporting role in Pricilla Queen of the Desert. Having committed to a decent tree, I dismissed any thought of going for the partial pig and went the whole hog instead. We bought tinsel, shatterproof decorations and enough lights to make our own airport. The first thing I didn’t count on is that decorating the tree takes more than thirty seconds. Each branch had to be massaged into position. The decorations were pretty but needed thread in order to hang them. And, upon dropping one, I discovered that claims of being shatterproof were tragically misinformed. Perhaps I should have gone the Bieber Bauble after all. But for all the kilometers and heartache, I love our tree. Maybe that’s just because it’s ours. Or perhaps by having it, we’re putting the ghost of Christmas past to rest. Still, looking at it now, perhaps a real tree would be even better. Time to sharpen the axe. Merry Christmas to all. Even Justin Bieber.