A Christmas Story

by Andrea McKenzie

Jaime drove the steep mountain road, covered with snow, with her five-year-old daughter in the passenger seat. There had been a snowstorm the week before, the time when she would usually head up to the tree park. She looked at her daughter who was peering eagerly out of the window. That was where Jaime used to sit every year her own father drove her up this same road; it was their winter ritual to drive out into the white wilderness, only the two of them, and search for the best Christmas tree. Jaime smiled to herself. She felt as though her father were tagging along with them in the back of the her pickup truck. He had been dead for a year. The big “C”. Funny how a diagnosis that began with the same letter of a holiday that gave him so much joy, killed him. She didn’t enjoy the irony. The two girls bumped their way along the road, hitting twigs and clumps of rock and hardened snow. She recognized every dip and lunge in the path, her body moving with the healthy shocks of the vehicle. She remembered her father’s voice, and could almost hear it now, as they drove.
“Remember Jaime,” he would say. “We need to find the best tree we can. Santa works hard all year round to get ready for Christmas, and he travels the whole world in one night and sees every little boy and girl’s house. We want him to remember ours so that he will come back.” This wasn’t meant as a threat that Christmas might not come again, but a lesson in rewarding hard work. “He sees lots of trees, and he must be tired. Let’s make sure our tree is special for him.” He would add, as soon as he saw the worried look in her eyes. Then her face would brighten and nod vigorously. Jaime gave her daughter the same speech today, as it was her first time Christmas tree hunting. They had been in the truck for an hour, singing Christmas carols. Her daughter’s favourite song was O Christmas Tree since she just learned it at school. Jaime mused how much more special and meaningful it was to take her daughter out in to the nature of winter, to see the deer observing them from their fir tree shelters at the side of the road, rather than drive into a crowded parking lot only blocks away from their house and survey cut trees for their fullness of branches and lack of human tampering.
She remembered years ago being either taunted or envied by the other kids, telling her it was illegal to cut down non-commercial trees, so said their parents who had never handled a power tool. Even at her young age, she knew it was not a crime to take one tree a year. She and her father mourned the clear-cut mountain faces, and she was taught to use both sides of a piece of paper and then recycle.
“If we have to cut down trees,” he told her. “We should at least honour their gift to us. The gift of life.” He taught her how much the trees gave back to the earth – oxygen for them all to breathe and providing houses for all animals. All people seemed to do was exhaust all of their resources. “We need to protect our wilderness, our place of solitude and serenity. The cities we are building are too hostile.” She grew up understanding this and wanting to live in the trees. She envisioned a forest community. Again, Jaime felt her father’s presence, as she tried to explain the car trip to her daughter, Molly, when the little girl asked, “if it is bad to cut down trees, then why are we going to?”
Jaime began to tell her a story that her father had told her. ‘Have I told you the squirrel story, Molly?”
“No.”
“I haven’t?” Jaime began in mock surprise. “Well, you’re going to like this one. When I was your age, your grandpa went up to the mountain to get a tree, just like we are doing, and he found the best tree available.
“He brought it home and began to put on the trimmings, when he started to hear a small voice in the tree.”
“What did the voice say?” Molly was young enough to accept anything her mother told her, but she listened with a sharp ear.
“... the voice said ‘this isn’t my home. Where am I?’ and your grandfather looked farther inside the branches of the tree and saw a squirrel looking back at him, petrified.”
“Squirrels can’t talk!” Molly protested.
“Well, this squirrel was very smart and used to city folks going to the woods. So, he picked up a few human words.” Molly wasn’t sure what to make of her mother’s explanation, and still sat with her arms crossed in defiance. Soon, though, her arms relaxed as her mother carried on.
“Then what happened?” she asked, and her mother smiled.
“Well, you can imagine how surprised Grandpa was to find a talking squirrel in his tree! He also felt very bad for the little squirrel because he didn’t mean to take him from his home. So he said to the squirrel, “I’m very sorry Mr. Squirrel, I didn’t know this tree was your home, and it is the best tree I could find for Santa.”
‘Santa?’ replied the squirrel, ‘Who is he? And what does he want with my tree?’
‘Oh no,’ Grandpa said, ‘he doesn’t WANT your tree... but he will leave gifts under it for me and, he does such a good job, I wanted him to see the best tree.’
‘Gifts?’ said the squirrel, growing more curious and interested, ‘what kinds of gifts?’ And this stumped poor Grandpa because, the truth is, Christmas isn’t really about the gifts. It’s a tradition, but everyone seems to go about making a fuss and giving everyone stuff that they would like, but also lots of stuff they don’t really need. He tried to explain this to the squirrel.
“Yeah, like all of those socks I got last year,” said Molly with a face.
“Well honey, you actually did need those... but do you think you really needed all of your toys?”
“Well, I guess not,” replied Molly reluctantly. Again, her mother smiled and smoothed her daughter’s hair.
“So the squirrel said, ‘gee, do you think Santa might leave something for me? I mean, after all, this is MY tree!’”
“Well, we can leave him a note – I’m sure that he would! What would you like?” Grandpa asked. The squirrel thought about this for a moment.
‘You know, the snow came early this year and I didn’t have much of a chance to gather my nuts for the winter. Do you think he might bring me more nuts so that I can survive until spring?’ Grandpa thought that was a very reasonable request, and so he began to write a note to Santa and put it on the tree. ‘There!’ he said, ‘Now Santa will know that you need more food Mr. Squirrel.’
‘Now I guess it is okay for me to keep your tree for Christmas,’ Grandpa said, feeling satisfied, but the squirrel had something to say.
“What did the squirrel say?” Molly asked again.
“The squirrel said, ‘wait a minute... you have to promise me that you will only take a tree once a year, and when you do you have to plant a new one. We don’t have many best trees any more because they are always disappearing and we don’t know why.’”
“Your forest friends, you mean?” asked Grandpa.
‘Yes,’ replied the squirrel. ‘Santa or no Santa... you can’t just take trees without any thought. They make our homes and give life to the Earth. They are not just our homes, they make a home for you, too!’
‘Yes, they certainly do,’ reflected Grandpa. ‘I will plant a new tree every Christmas, I promise, and thank you for allowing me to borrow your home.’
Then the squirrel was happy. It was Christmas Eve and Grandpa told the squirrel to go into his branches and sleep or else Santa might not come. The squirrel did as he said.”
“In the morning, did Santa leave nuts for Mr. Squirrel like Grandpa asked him to?”
“The next morning, Grandpa woke up to find another note and Mr. squirrel was gone. The note read ‘Dear Sir, thank you for taking care of Mr. Squirrel and his tree. I have given him a winter supply of nuts and a new home. If you look outside your window, you will see it.’ So Grandpa looked outside his window and saw a beautiful fir tree and Mr. Squirrel inside, busily putting away his winter supply. He went back to the note – ‘Mr. Squirrel explained to me the pact you made and I want to thank you for the tree. I understand they are needed, but I hope most everyone will remember they are living things and take so long to grow.’
“So, Grandpa and the squirrel had a Christmas tree,” said Molly happily.
“That’s right, and you know what? Grandpa decorated that tree, too, every year for Mr. Squirrel right outside his window.” Molly was pleased with this story, whether she knew thought it was true or not, it didn’t matter. She knew how special Christmas trees were. They continued to ramble up the road in their truck, and finally Jaime pulled off to the side.
“We’re here!” she chimed. “Are you ready to find the best tree?”
“Sure,” Molly said, “but we better check for squirrels, too...” she added this in a serious tone, and her mother gave her an equally serious look and a nod.
“Absolutely.” Then they trotted off for a short distance into the snow.
“What about this one?” Molly suddenly called out. She found a medium-sized tree that looked to be a few years old. A perfect size for her.
“Good eye, Molly,” exclaimed her mother, and began to steady the tree and chop it down. Then, from her pocket she took a pine comb and a shovel. “Help me.” Molly knelt down in the snow and took the shovel from her mother.
“Dig deep into the ground, sweetie. The deeper the roots are, the higher the tree will grow.” Molly did as she was told. Then she took the pine comb from her mother’s hand and placed it gently in the ground.
“That’s your Christmas tree,” she said. Molly grinned. Then the carried the tree back to the truck and hoisted it into the cab. Mother and daughter sang Christmas carols all the way home and that night they decorated the tree and prepared snacks for Santa. Before bed, Molly placed a folded note into her stocking.
“Don’t read it,” she told her mother with the same serious face.
“I won’t,” promised her mother. She meant to later, but she was so busy wrapping gifts that she forgot about the note. Finally, she went to bed exhausted and full of anticipation for her daughter’s Christmas morning. She awoke to a cry of something other than joy.
“Mommy! Look!” Molly bounded into her bedroom with a look of surprise and worry.
“What is it?”
“Come look! It’s the tree!” Jaime followed her daughter out into the living room to find the tree in shambles. Their 6-month-old cat was in the corner chewing on some tinsel and batting at assorted tree ornaments.
“Oh no!” she grabbed the cat firmly and took the tinsel from its mouth, nearly getting scratched. She was so exhausted, she didn’t hear the tree come down in the night. They began to survey the damage. The presents were still intact and nothing else seemed ruined. Actually, the presents had been moved to another corner of the room and piled neatly, much to Jaime’s confusion. Molly went to her stocking and opened her note.
“He was here!” she shouted.
“Yes, honey. Santa was here. He wouldn’t not come just because of the tree.”
“No, not just Santa.” Molly’s mother was further confused by this remark and took the little note from her daughter’s outstretched hand. This is what the note read:

Dear Jaime,

Thank you for the beautiful tree. While I was here your pretty cat got excited and jumped into the tree. Perhaps he was a little afraid of me. I moved your parcels, but I didn’t have time to clean up the tree. I am sorry. You have a beautiful daughter. I wish you both a very merry Christmas.

Love Santa

Then Jaime read the bottom of the note:

Thank you, honey, for teaching Molly all of the things I taught you. Love Dad.
Jaime almost dropped the note, and the emotion began to well up in her eyes. Molly looked at her, smiling.
“Don’t cry, Mommy. Grandpa is with Santa,” She sang.
“Yes,” said Jaime, smiling at the half-drunk eggnog and cookie crumbs she had left out the night before. “I believe he is.”