O' Stolen Christmas Tree

"Psst...go back to that empty lot and grab one of those Christmas trees."

Grandmom nudged us back into the minivan.

"What?" My eyebrows shot up in surprise.

My brother looked at me, then at Grandmom.

"You can't be serious. We can't just steal a Christmas tree."

"Why not?"

Our Grandmom, Edna, was forceful. "Here, pin this on the shack's wall if it eases your conscience." She stuffed a ten-dollar bill into my brother's pocket.

"On your way, now, before your folks notice you've gone."

Scandalized, I hopped back into the van before she could swat me on the bum. My brother pulled out of the driveway, and I saw Grandmom waving from the garage door.

"This is nuts."

It was my fault. If only I hadn't made my family wait for me to get the tree.

Every year, since the dawning of time, my parents, brother, and I trekked out to a Pennsylvania Christmas tree farm a few days before December 25th to cut down the perfect fir.

During my grade-school years, when Dad was a driver for UPS, we cherished any time we spent with him during the busy delivery season. Often, we went tree hunting with family friends—making a day of it. We enjoyed hot chocolate and cookies—spent the afternoon walking around the woods in the crisp air. It was a family tradition.

When we moved to Georgia, the tradition shifted just like everything else. First of all, most folks in the South put their Christmas tree up on the day after Thanksgiving and take it down two or three days after Christmas. Many put up fake balsams—retrieved from the attic where they had hung, bat-like, from the rafters since last December 29th. We clung to our tradition with both fists, unwilling to assimilate completely into the Southern culture surrounding us.

That particular year, my college final exam schedule was grueling and ended with one last test on the afternoon of December 23rd. That evening, it was my job to gather Grandmom from her twin house on Congress Street, about an hour away from campus, and escort her to the airport, where we would fly together to Georgia. I begged my family to wait for us to arrive before getting the tree. We arrived exhausted that night.

On the 24th, after a hearty family breakfast, it was time to hit the road, drive into the mountains of north Georgia, and find the perfect Frasier.

Dad, Mom, Grandmom, my brother, and I piled into the minivan, listening to merry carols on the radio and enjoying the scenery as Dad drove us into the hills. The first tree farm we saw had a gate securely locked across the drive. Hmmm...okay, let's try another one. Same thing there and at the next farm too.

An hour into our happy excursion, we realized that the farms were closed for the holidays. No one in Georgia would be buying their tree on Christmas Eve! Who would wait so long?

Twilight fell upon us as Dad drove us back home—our vehicle full of sullen silence. We passed house after house, lit up from within—the glow of candlelight and Christmas lights casting a dreamy light into the night.

No Christmas tree! We never had Christmas without one before! It was my fault, and I slunk into my seat, the sound of silence louder than a trumpet blasting in my ear. Dad turned on the radio. Even the soft crooning of Bing could not ease the ache in my heart.

At the last light, before turning onto our road, my brother noticed a shack in an abandoned lot, strung with blinking colored lights and surrounded by pre-cut, wrapped-up fir trees! Salvation!

Without a word, Dad pulled over, and my brother and I ran to the shed to purchase a tree—any tree. The shack was empty, and there wasn't a soul around. The hut was lit, and Dean Martin crooned from a radio, but the place was deserted.

Maybe the guy went to the gas station across the road and would return momentarily. We climbed back into the warm car.

"Well?" Mom asked.

We explained. Dad said we could wait for a few minutes. After what seemed an eternity, no one returned to the shack. It was a lost cause.

Dad put the car into gear and drove home. Mom and Dad were disappointed. Edna was not deterred—she simply would not take no for an answer and sent her grandchildren to steal a tree.

And so there we were, my brother and I, approaching the shack in the dark like criminals—looking this way and that to be sure we weren't seen.

We came upon a pile of netted pines and shouldered the one on top, hoping it would be half decent. Checking behind us one last time to be sure we weren't pursued by the owner, a junkyard dog, or the police, we quickly tied the tree to the top of the van and high-tailed it out of there.

When we got the evergreen home, Dad was surprised but did not question it. He had seen his mother wink at us from across the room, and he knew not to question Edna's ways.

We put the tree in the stand, and, with bated breath, my brother did the honors. He clipped the netting away, only to reveal the most full, the most fragrant, the most perfect Christmas tree we had ever seen.