By John Grindrod
Guest Columnist
Of the many gifts that define the Christmas season, besides the obvious, there are others as well that may not spring to mind.
For me from Christmases long ago I remember the gift of laughter. Some memories that prompted such laughter involved the Christmas tree, which my father insisted always be a live one back in a time when almost no one I knew would even think of erecting an artificial tree.
It was so funny to me that the trees Dad selected from the lot he favored on the asphalt that surrounded the Dairy Queen off Allentown Road looked so good to him when he made his selection but somehow looked quite different once in our living room in that small ranch at 1525 Latham.
Even when the tree was exposed as being unshapely or worse, yet, crooked, Dad refused to admit defeat. One year when I was still in full-Santa Claus mode during a time I wanted the Jolly Elf to be awed by the tree, so much so, he’d reach into his bag and spread some extra gifts around the base of it, Dad brought one home that was so crooked at the bottom that once it was placed in the stand, it refused to remain erect without its being tied with some twine at the top to one of the brackets that held the curtain rod above the picture window in the front room.
Some years later I returned home from Miami University for my first college Christmas. Of course, in those days, the legal drinking age was 18 for that elixir known as 3.2 beer. As a man of unmatched gregariousness who loved a good party, especially the ones he organized and oversaw, Dad decided we needed a tree-trimming party.
Now, the tree he brought home at first glance looked like one of his better efforts. However, as we would soon discover once we tried to fit it into the stand, there were too many branches at the bottom of the tree, which meant the tree’s bottom wouldn’t reach the bottom of the stand.
So, a pal and I were commissioned to go out in the carport and use a saw cosmetically to ensure the tree’s base would reach the bottom of the stand. When we returned, and I’ll admit perhaps we’d had a wee bit too much Christmas cheer that made judgment an issue, we realized that we’d removed too much of the base along with the branches and the tree now was even farther from the bottom of the stand than it was before.
So off we went to the carport, this time with some nails, to saw the removed part in half and then nail half to the tree’s bottom. We then brought the tree back in, and the bottom of the tree finally DID touch the stand’s bottom, which set off a brief spontaneous burst of applause. From one of the assembled guests came the words we’d all heard just months before when the Apollo 11 Lunar Module touched the moon’s powdery surface with our Wapak guy Neil about to descend the steps. “The Eagle has landed.”
Although we finally got it into the stand, it wasn’t the most stable tree, I’ll admit, especially with the added weight of the lights and ornaments, but at least that year we got away with not having to tie it to the curtain rod.
So many of my most salient memories of Christmas involve my father. The man so loved Christmas time. Dad not only brought to my family some questionable tree choices but also brought to us his prankster side.
Years later not long after Sis married, she and my brother-in-law, John, decided to host the family for a Christmas Eve dinner in their first home, a small ranch in Westgate on Rice Avenue. It was Joanie’s first effort in putting together an entire turkey dinner with all the fixings, and she was understandably nervous that the golden brown bird had cooked fully but also wasn’t overcooked to the point of dryness.
I’d arrived first, and while we were waiting for Mom and Dad, we sat conversing over a Christmas cocktail and enjoying our 20-something youth. Then the door swung open and our parents came in. Dad, with his customary never-had-a-bad-day smile and booming voice still dialectically attuned to his Boston roots, proclaimed he’d brought something he thought might be needed, moving swiftly around the table and placing something cylindrical and silvery on each plate.
We rose and approached the table, curious to see what it was. On each plate was a small roll of Tums.
While the Tums surely weren’t necessary, it was, I thought, Christmas at its funniest and surely, between the waves of tears, it was a Christmas moment I recalled in the days following the car-train accident that would take Dad’s life on a warm day in May before just three more Christmases would pass.
My hope is that you continue to enjoy all that this season has to offer. Enjoy the religious significance, the fellowship, the food and the gifts. But, just as important, especially in such troubling times as those 2023 has seen, please, also listen for the laughter.
John Grindrod is a regular columnist for The Lima News, a freelance writer and editor and the author of two books. Reach him at [email protected].
