When my father turned 83, I encouraged him to put on paper some of the stories he was fond of telling about his childhood growing up on the Mirimichi River. He wrote a short story a week until his death a decade later, and each of them were sharp slices of insight and keen observations of life before and after World War I. This one has a certain charm and timely theme. From the legendary pen of LJ Duplacey.

Christmas Does Grow on Trees

Amid mutters and grumbles, the stores in New Brunswick are now allowed to open on Sunday until Christmas Eve. The Yule time season keeps lengthening out and many don’t like it.

But the early start to the Christmas season is nothing new. I remember my father starting to scout for our Christmas tree around the middle of October. Being surrounded by thousands of fine firs, it was unthinkable that you would buy one. Dad would find the tree of his choice and mark it for pick-up a week before Christmas. There was an unwritten code of honour that you did not steal another man’s tree. The odd one that did was deemed to be a degenerate and branded as a “Companion of the Brotherhood of Satan”.

The tree was set up in our parlor a few days before Christmas. Trimmed with homemade ornaments, strings of popcorn and dozens of tiny candles attached with clips. The candles were for show only, of course. They were never lit, God forbid.

The door to the parlor was closed until Christmas morning when we all trooped in to see it. The room was as cold as an open grave. After a few "ooh’s" and "ahh’s", we hightailed it out of there before we were frostbitten.

When my brother Harry was old enough, he took over the responsibility of bringing in the tree. When he left for the USA to seek his fortune, I was next in line.

It was quite a task for a youngster barely into his teens. The tree had to be a certain size, height and it had to “smell” like a Christmas tree. I figured that the size and height would pose no problem, but the smell had me perplexed. All doubts were erased when I discovered the odor came naturally, thanks to the wild life in the area. I was warned that if I came up short in any of the required elements, I would be in for a long trip back to the woods.

On my first trip, I was accompanied by two chums, Eddie McBride and Frank Elkin. Frank later became Father Frank, and I have a sneaking suspicion that it was this adventure that turned his thoughts to God. I was busy cutting a tree when a sudden screech filled the air. Frank had cut, and almost severed, Eddie’s hand with his axe. Deep in the woods and miles from town, we were lucky to meet a woodsman nearby. Eddie was taken by sleigh to the nearest doctor. He was able to save the hand, but not without leaving it marred by a horrible scar. Some nit, with no wit, labelled him Scar-Hand Eddie, a nickname that stuck with him until his untimely and tragic death while still a teenager.

There was an unofficial contest at Christmas every year for the best decorated tree. It was won year after year by the Hay family. I saw their tree several times, and indeed it was a winner. Set up in the middle of the room, decorated from floor to ceiling and on all sides. A nit, with some wit, suggested if Eddie’s limb had been severed, we could have hung it on our tree and won the top honor hands down.

I lost my assignment as Christmas tree procurer when I left to take my first job as a Morse operator in Campbellton. Then it was Gerry’s turn. I never did return to the woods to pick out a tree, but I am still decorating them.