Before I get to the story of “Uncle Albert’s Christmas Tree” I would like to give a little background to this story. At the end of November the editor of the local paper “The Packet” emailed me and asked if I had a Christmas story and if not would I write one for the December 17, Christmas edition which I did and sent off to her. Despite an email query asking if the story was suitable for printing I heard nothing back and the story was not printed. It is therefore left to my imagination as to why the story wasn’t printed. It could have been because of space constraints, the tone of the story or it wasn’t good enough. Here at “A Twist Of Humor” we don’t have any space constraints, and we aren’t too worried about the tone of the story. And if the story isn’t any good we promise to refund your money in full. One last thing, this story is constructed around a kernel of truth which is this: In Toronto during the Depression my father had an uncle who needed a Christmas tree and without any money to buy one went to his local cemetery and cut one down, resulting in his spending Christmas in jail.

Uncle Albert’s Christmas Tree

The city’s gritty angles were softened and cleansed by its cover of fresh snow. In a worn down part of the city, lived in by worn down people, Uncle Albert was looking out his kitchen window at the snow mounded against and on top of his backyard fence and at the once naked oak tree, now covered in it’s new cloak of white. Without turning around he spoke to his wife, who was attacking with a determined ferocity the dirt on the dishes in the sink, “Mabel, it looks just like a picture on a Christmas card out there. All cottony and soft.” After another minute of reflection on the Christmas card picture in his yard Uncle Albert said, “Mind you, the dog’s yellow piss holes in the snow kind of takes something away from it.”

He sighed and turned to look at the calendar on the wall - the one with the smiling, saucy looking girl, holding a wrench, wearing tight mechanic’s overalls, and looking over her shoulder straight at you with the bluest eyes you ever saw.

Beneath the saucy mechanic the month of December was showing. Twenty-two of its days had been crossed out by Uncle Albert’s legacy to the world, his children; namely Horace, Wilfred, Leonard and Nellie, ages seven through ten. It’s unreported what the world thought about being left with this legacy. The year printed on the calendar was 1931.

After staring at the calendar for a few more minutes Uncle Albert said, “We can’t have Christmas without a Christmas tree. The kids have to have something.”

It is not known for a certainty if Uncle Albert was talking to the pretty mechanic on the calendar, or to Aunt Mabel. In any event it was Aunt Mabel who answered back, “We can’t afford to pay for our coal, our rent or our lights, and we can barely pay for enough food to keep body and soul together and with no job, I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

There was no uncertainty as to whom Aunt Mabel was talking to.

With his eyes still focused on the calendar Uncle Albert said, “If a man can’t have a job at Christmas, he should at least have a Christmas tree. That’s not too much to ask, is it? This country is so full of trees a man has to work hard not to bump into one.”

The blue eyed mechanic seemed not to have an opinion on the matter. However, Aunt Mabel did. She said, “No Albert, it’s not too much to ask. Ask away. It’s not going to change anything one bit.” Uncle Albert sighed, turned and looked out the window again.

It’s not known where Uncle Albert got the idea from. Whether it was his own, the saucy mechanic’s, or someone else’s, history is silent on the matter.

Wherever the idea came from, eight o’clock that night found Uncle Albert standing on a sidewalk with snow past his knees. He was staring at a sign bolted to a rusty wrought iron fence. He absently brushed falling snow from his shoulders and read, “Resteasy Cemetery.” Through the railings on the fence he could see trees. Many of them green coniferous trees. Christmas trees. Uncle Albert felt for the ax beneath his coat and walked into the cemetery.

Thwack, thwack cracked the night air. Uncle Albert stopped and listened. The citizens of the cemetery remained undisturbed. They continued their long peaceful slumber beneath the blanket of snow. No one else seemed to have heard either. Thwack, thwack and the tree was down.

Uncle Albert took hold of the end of the tree, put his head down and dragged it through the snow, oblivious to passing people, hurrying automobiles, and clanging streetcars. His only thought was for the Christmas tree and getting it home safely. When he reached the safety of his house he dragged the tree over his snow covered walkway and up his front steps into the house. Behind the closed door could be heard a muffled exclamation from Aunt Mabel, “Where did that come from?” And from the children not so muffled squeals of delight.

When interrogated by Aunt Mabel, Uncle Albert did not lie to her about where the tree came from. It’s not that he was above telling a lie, but from past experience he knew it was useless to do so. Uncle Albert found it prudent to tell the truth; at least to Aunt Mabel.

Whatever misgivings Aunt Mabel had about the tree, she kept them to herself when she saw how delighted and excited her children were. As far as they were concerned the tree was a magical gift presented to them by the Spirit of Christmas. It also was the most beautiful Christmas tree Aunt Mabel had ever seen which didn’t hurt Uncle Albert’s chances of keeping it.

Enough cocoa was scraped together to make hot chocolate drinks. And enough pennies were hunted down under sofa cushions, in lint-filled pockets and dark corners of drawers to send Leonard to the store for marshmallows. The tree was decorated and all agreed it was the best tree ever, anywhere. It was a peaceful sleep the family slept that night.

Well, it would have been peaceful except for Constable Billy, who had his beagle nose to the snow following a trail made by a dragged tree that was reported stolen from the Resteasy Cemetery of all places. As was peculiar to his breed he was tenacious in following the trail wherever it led. And it led straight to: “Why I’ll be. It’s Albert’s house,” said Constable Billy detaching his beagle nose from the snowy sidewalk.

As a result of the beagle-like detective work of Constable Billy and the gout of Judge Coldhartt, Uncle Albert was sentenced to forty five days in the local lockup. It would have been thirty days but Uncle Albert couldn’t pay the ten dollar fine that went with the thirty days and because justice must prevail and because Judge Coldhartt was in considerable discomfort he received an extra fifteen days. On such things as gout and beagle noses does a man’s fate hang; at least Uncle Albert’s did. As a small concession to the Christmas season and after it was decided the tree couldn’t be replanted Uncle Albert was allowed to keep the tree.

Christmas day found Aunt Mabel, Leonard, Horace, Wilfred and Nellie seated around the kitchen table eating their Christmas dinner of beef soup and bread. As there was no coal for the furnace they were bundled up in as many coats and sweaters they could get on. They were anxious to finish their meal so they could go into the living room and admire their beautiful Christmas tree and give thanks for it. They were all very grateful for the sacrifice Uncle Albert had made on their behalf.

Meanwhile, Uncle Albert was in a warm cell lying on his bunk under warm covers. His Christmas presents of socks and mitts from a local church were on a shelf over his head. His belly was full of turkey and Christmas pudding. The last thing he saw pinned to the wall at the foot of his bunk that night before he fell to sleep was a mechanic with a saucy smile and the bluest eyes you ever saw. He slept with a contented smile on his face through the night.

That night snow fell, turning the city into an enchanted land of cottony softness. The people rushing about, the hurrying automobiles, and the clanging streetcars all seemed frozen in time against a backdrop of the city’s twinkling lights and the falling snow. It looked just like a picture on a Christmas card. You could almost see Merry Christmas printed over the top of the picture. Except… as Uncle Albert would point out, all those yellow holes in the snow kind of takes something away from it.

© Mike Cook 2007

I’m back with a new column. In the past I’ve tried to post a column every week. I think for now I will post more randomly. I also am going to try and experiment more with my writing. I would like to thank everyone who has encouraged me to continue writing. I discovered that I missed the butterflies of excitement in my belly when I’m writing and everything starts to come together on a story.

My wife and I have been jilted. Our Toyota Corolla, which has served us faithfully and loyally for nine years, and in return has been rewarded with fidelity and loyalty from us, has capriciously transferred it’s affections from us to our son, without so much as a backward glance.

How did this tawdry affair come about? This is how: Our son, who, as I write this, will be seventeen this Halloween, came into possession of a driver’s license last week. His own, as it turns out. As a consequence we haven’t seen the car or our son for a week.

I’ve told the car not to come crawling back when it needs studded tires this winter or a new battery or a tank of gas.

However, what really bothers me is this: How did my son get to be seventeen so soon, when it took me three eternities to reach that age? By my reckoning of time he should only be eight years old.

I can remember his birth as if it were yesterday. Better still I can remember his conception as if it were yesterday. It was planned with all the care and precision that went into the planning of the invasion of Normandy during WWII. My wife played the part of General Eisenhower, while I played the part of a private in one of the allied armies. I followed orders and did what I was told and took the beaches, raised the flag and accomplished the mission (it truly was accomplished) and nine months later my son made his entrance onto the world’s stage.

It must be recorded for history that he made his entrance reluctantly and only after much persuasion. I believe his reluctance was due to his having heard rumors of what was going on out in the world; and being a smart human person, wanted no part of it. And who could blame him?

Eventually he was yanked into the world, the cord was cut, and he was passed to a nurse who held him up for all the world to admire and exclaim over. My son then made his first statement to the world, leaving no doubt to his thoughts on being yanked from his warm and cozy nest and thrust into a crazy place.

Listen carefully, his statement was this: He defecated.

And I said this: “Well done my son, I could not have said it better!”

I will lower the curtain while the scenery is being changed on the stage and raise it again on a warm, sunny, spring day in St. John’s. There will be skeptics and cynics who will read the previous sentence and ask this question: “How can there be such a thing as a warm, sunny, spring day in St. John’s?” Believe it. I saw it with my own eyes.

On this miraculous day I was playing on the grass in Bowring Park with my son, who was about two years old, when a gentleman walking by stopped and said, “Enjoy him while you can. The time goes all too fast.” I then spoke these ignorant words to him: “I know.”

Can you believe my ignorance and arrogance? Believe it. I was there. I knew nothing about how quickly the time would pass and how soon my two year old son would be almost seventeen and seducing my car away from me.

I will mercifully lower the curtain on the ignorant fool in the park (me) and raise it two years later.

My son asked me a question. I don’t remember where or when he asked it. All I remember is the question. It was this: “What happens if you don’t live till I’m twenty?”

My response was this: I did what a human person sometimes does when it wants to comfort another human person. I put my arms around him, hugged him and then I lied to him.

This was my lie: I told him there was nothing to worry about, everything would be alright, and I surely would live long past his twentieth birthday.

He trusted my words because I was his father and I was still infallible in his eyes. He did not know and would not have believed that I could not possibly know these things to be true. In truth I could barely tie my shoelaces properly let alone tell the future. I was a fraud.

It’s no wonder my son was reluctant to come out into the world. The rumors were true. The world is a crazy place. I have some advice for all those human persons who are in their warm, cozy nests waiting to make their entrance on the world’s stage. It’s this: Don’t be so hasty. Take your time. The worlds not all it’s cracked up to be.

When my son was born I vowed not to make the mistakes I thought my parents made. I was going to be a perfect parent. Mom, Dad wherever you are it’s not as easy as I thought. I might as well have vowed to grow wings and fly to the top of Mt. Everest and have a picnic. Needless to say I fell a little short.

Here I would like to write that I did my best. However, I don’t think I can honestly write that. What I can write is that I love my son more than anything or anyone. Love does not absolve us of blame or even from having to say we’re sorry, nor even from taking the garbage out. But it is something.

I will lower the curtain here, because I have to go grocery shopping. However, before I do that I need to seduce a car back into my warm embrace. Perhaps a bouquet of car air fresheners will do the trick.

© Mike Cook 2007

So where was I? Oh yes…I wrote in May that I wouldn’t be writing any columns for a couple of weeks. Ummm, I seem to have miscalculated. I think an explanation might be in order. Especially to those who wrote and enquired how I was, where I was and if I needed any bail money. First I would like to offer an apology for not explaining sooner.

The fact is I couldn’t write sooner because I didn’t know how to explain it and I’m still not sure if I can. I feel uncomfortable even writing these words.

When I was “writing” this explanation in my head I had a lengthy and involved account of why a couple of weeks turned into a few months. I soon realized this would have bored you and made me even more uncomfortable.

The short version is that I became discouraged with writing.

When I began writing these columns I thought I might be able to sell some, and while I have had six or seven published, my original intent hasn’t been met. If I were a younger person I could tell myself time was on my side, if I kept plugging away. However, at my age I know this not to be true; hence the discouragement, and no columns having been written for a few months. I don’t know if I want to devote the time and effort to writing anymore or if I would be happier using that time pursuing other interests.

Having said that I have had a couple of ideas for stories knocking about in my mind; I just don’t know if I have the passion or if I am able to find the “place” again where these stories come from.

Mike

Although it may not be apparent, writing one of these columns once a week takes a fair amount of my time, and because spare time will be in short supply I won’t be writing one for a couple of weeks.

Among other things I have to get caught up on my outdoor chores before the meat eating flies arrive. My wife is also looking at me darkly and muttering something about finally cleaning the basement and installing the new kitchen tap. She also said something about spending less time downstairs with the computer and more time upstairs with her. I have a feeling that after a few days she will change her mind about me spending more time with her. I don’t think she will change her mind about the other things though. Hopefully I can get my time management problems sorted out so that I will have time to write my nonsense.

Mike