Katherina Minardo, Sculptor

They had all grown up together on a lovely hill overlooking the blue ocean somewhere in British Columbia. Each had been planted with care to produce the ultimate Christmas tree, with just the right amount of room to allow the perfect shape to form. The soil was rich with ideal nutrients for their growth, and the changing seasons brought sun, rain, and snow.

It was a wonderful life.

Five years had passed since their planting. They had grown to the same height, round and perfect and straight, like rows of school children eager for recess. They seldom saw people. But this autumn a wave of excitement rippled through the farm. Men had come to take their measurements, and that meant only one thing. Perhaps they had reached the right height! Maybe this was going to be the year!

Ever since they were tiny saplings they had dreamed of that final year when they would be picked to become Christmas trees. Their sap flowed fast in anticipation. Could this be it?

And then the cutting began. The pain of being sawn off at their roots was intense, but it was short, and in the excitement of the wonders to come, soon forgotten.

Then the trip began. Tightly tied and piled high on the big truck, the trees found the journey long and unpleasant. One, named Cyril, found himself stuck at the bottom of the pile. The weight of his brothers and sisters felt like a mountain sitting on top of him. This aspect he had not foreseen, and he could not breathe. His real worry, however, throughout the long journey to the big city, was only one. “Please, oh please, don’t let my branches and needles be damaged.”

Cyril was a beautiful blue spruce like all the others. It always seemed to him that his needles were particularly long, plump, and of a silvery blue that gleamed in the sunlight. All his life he had dreamed of the beautiful lights and decorations that would be hung on him; of the bright parcels piled high under his feet; of the opulent living room where he would be standing in full glory, like a king surrounded by adoring masses. In his mind, the air filled with the scent of cakes and spices. He imagined the carols and the laughter of children, bright eyed with excitement and great expectations. Yes, that was what each and every one of them, all the trees at the farm, had lived for. That one glorious moment, royally decked out and the centre of attention.

And now here he was, squashed at the bottom of a huge load, suffocating and helpless. Then, after what seemed an interminable journey, it was over. They were dumped, quite unceremoniously, onto an empty corner lot at the intersection of two busy streets. Having for all his life only heard the sound of birds and rustling of the wind, of gentle rain or soundless snowflakes, the sounds of the city felt rude, the polluted air foreign and nauseating.

A man arrived and began stacking the trees against a fence.

Cyril again was the last in his stack. He and all the others near him were left tied up; only the very first row was untied and put on display. People began to stop by to examine the trees.

The first trees were quickly sold. Excitement returned to all the others. But why were people so choosy? Why did they pick one over the other? They were all the same height, all the same perfect conical shape, all beautiful. But no. People looked them over as with a magnifying glass; they found the smallest imperfection. Perhaps it was a tiny branch broken during the trip, or the needles were not symmetrical on all sides. But they had all looked so perfect on the farm.

So some were chosen and some left behind. Still, it was a thrill to be finally there in the big city. They all dreamed of that beautiful room full of beautiful children and grownups too. The parcels, the decorations, the sparkling lights weighing down their branches. The glorious event for which they had all lived. And still there was plenty of time.

Of course they would all be sold! Never had any of them even vaguely considered any other fate. It was simply unthinkable.

Days went by. People and cars rushed past the intersection in an endless blur. Since they were truly prize-winning trees many were sold, and the pile became smaller. New ones were taken from the stack, untied, and their poor branches — stiff from the ropes — allowed to stretch and regain their fullness. Cyril saw his brothers being looked over, selected, and sold. But he was still all tied up, still at the bottom of the pile.

It was a wealthy neighbourhood. Beautiful women, elegant men, exquisitely dressed children with rosy cheeks and excited eyes walked by all day. Cyril kept on dreaming, despite feeling his sap slowly drying out and his branches aching from the ropes. Maybe this lovely lady with the cute little girl would notice him. Struck by the distinct silver hue in his needles, she would call her man to pick Cyril out and liberate him. Then he would travel with them in the trunk of their car to their splendid home. Someone would mount him in a container of cold water, and then all the family, save for the children, would decorate him. He would stand tall in the living room gazing down on enormous piles of glittering boxes with red, gold, and silver ribbons. He would revel in the squeals of excitement, the jumping and clapping of little hands when the children would be allowed into the room, and he would know that his life had been fulfilled. He would have become the perfect Christmas tree.

The weather — up to now unseasonably mild — turned suddenly cold, and a light snowfall blanketed the city. It was pretty at first, and Cyril’s thoughts turned to the old tree farm; he felt a little homesick. But quickly the snow turned into a sticky slush, and he was concerned it would conceal his beauty. People stopped less frequently. A sign appeared at the gate offering the trees at a discount. What an insult! But even though more of his cousins were finding homes. It was getting dangerously close to that special day.

And then it happened. That which no tree would ever envision even in its worst nightmare. It was five o’clock on Christmas Eve, and Cyril had not been sold. The lot was nearly empty now, with only broken branches littering the ground. And to make things worse he had fallen over and was left to lie in his slushy corner.

The salesmen were well satisfied; they had sold all the trees but one. And the money they were counting made quite a stack. It had been a very good year. They were laughing and rubbing their hands to keep warm. Soon they would be somewhere warm, each celebrating in his own way.

The elderly man in the worn-out grey coat approached quietly. His face was lined and tired but his clear blue eyes sparkled, revealing more than his drab clothes ever could.

“How much is the last tree?” he asked a salesman in his heavy Central European accent.

The salesman, surprised by the question, looked the man over. In his jovial mood he had forgotten that last tree lying forlorn in the corner. “How much do you have?” was his answer.

The old man took out a small pile of one-dollar bills and started to count. “One, two, three… Sixteen dollars and fifty cents.” He looked up at the salesman.

The first trees had been sold for over one hundred dollars. Even on sale they never sold for under sixty. And here was this man with sixteen dollars and fifty cents. It was Christmas Eve, and the salesman knew there was nothing in the world more obsolete than an unsold Christmas tree. Well, he was feeling good and even a touch generous. His pockets were full, and soon he would join his buddies in some warm bar.

“Take the tree, old man, and keep your money. It’s the last one anyway. Have yourself a merry Christmas.”

Beaming and feeling good about himself, he left the old man standing with the money in his outstretched hand. 

If he had looked closer, he would have seen the fire of hurt pride burn in those blue eyes. The old man, now alone, stood for a few moments in the empty lot fighting with his emotions. He had been a big, strong, and extremely proud man. Life had not been easy since he had left his country, but charity? He had never accepted charity. Waves of aching pride swept through him like an ocean tide. His still-strong hands trembled as he placed the money back into his pocket. He thought to leave without the tree, but something made him look back at it, and in his mind he pictured his wife waiting at home.

So he swallowed his pride and picked Cyril up with one hand. This was one heavy tree, and he struggled to half carry, half drag it along the slushy sidewalk.

It was already dark, and the streetlight’s reflections danced on the wet street. People kept rushing by with last minute shopping, some even stepping on Cyril’s crown as it dragged on the pavement. Man and tree walked and walked.

After his bruised pride subsided, the old man started thinking of the money in his pocket. Maybe after all it was going to be a special Christmas. Now he could afford to buy the angora scarf, and gloves he had earlier spotted on the wagon of a street hawker at the next corner. Maybe he would still be there.

So he hurried as much as the bobbing tree allowed. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow. But spotting the vendor still purveying his merchandise gave him strength.

The scarf, in royal blue (a colour that always looked so good on her) was still there. So were the gloves. Four dollars and ninety five cents changed hands. He was excited. He could still afford more!

On the next corner someone was selling perfume. When was the last time he had bought her perfume? Always there had been no money, and he knew how much she would like it. He looked at the bottles. Only three dollars and ninety-five cents each. He chose one.

Excitement swept over his face. He still had six dollars and fifteen cents left. Five of the dollars could buy roast chicken with potatoes from the rotisserie near home. And a dollar fifteen was just what the pharmacy was asking for some silver tree garlands and candy canes — at last minute prices.

With his hands full of parcels dragging the tree became a real effort. He still had a long way to go. But now there was no real hurry. He felt happier than he had felt in a very long time.

To be continued…