That Time The Christmas Tree Fell on My Sister

I bet you read the title and had mental images of a Griswold-sized tree toppling over in a tidal wave of pine needles, ornaments, and tinsel, swallowing up a little girl as she clutched her teddy bear, helpless to stop the catastrophe in motion, resulting in tears, a ruined Christmas, and a life-long case of Christougenniatiko dentrophobia (that’s the clinical name for a fear of Christmas trees. Yes, apparently that’s a thing).

Oh, the humanity!

Is this one such story?

…maybe.

But first, some conspicuous exposition.

***

When I was a kid, my family used to get our Christmas trees from a place called Sloughhouse (pronounced “Slew-house”), up in the foothills east of Sacramento. My parents, grandparents, aunt, and uncle would walk around what I can only describe as a Christmas tree farm. We always got there early in the morning, and it was always so cold you could see big plumes of your breath in the air. Sometimes there was even a thin layer of slushy snow on the ground.

Despite the long drive and being sleepy and cold, I loved going.

We’d search the grounds, looking for the perfect tree. When we found it, we’d call for a cutter.

I don’t mean we’d phone someone, cellular phones being in their infancy at the time (I’m talking mid-to-late 1980s). We’d just yell “cutter!” as loud as we could, and a guy with a saw would come and cut the tree.

He’d help us carry it to a station where we would slide the tree through what looked like an over-sized basketball hoop. This would compress and encase the tree in plastic netting so we could tie it to the top of the car.

Once my parents and grandparents had their trees, we’d all stop somewhere for breakfast. I remember going inside a restaurant and smelling coffee, fried potatoes, various breakfast meats, and cigarette smoke (this was back when restaurants had smoking and non-smoking sections. Ah, the 80s…). I’d sit down and get a hot chocolate and, for the first time that day, I’d finally be warm.

It was laughter and Christmas cheer and happiness.

It was not the setting of a Christmas tree falling on my sister.

But given what a steaming heap of demon shit the last two years have been, perhaps you’ll forgive my indulging in a little nostalgia of better times.

That, and, eventually, my family stopped going to the hills for our trees.

Many things led to us pursuing quicker, more convenient tree options, but mostly, it was my uncle’s untimely death in 1990 which took the luster and joy from going up to Sloughhouse for a tree. It just wasn’t the same without him.

Now that I’ve brought everyone down, let me attempt to inject some humor and holiday cheer back into this.

***

I’m not sure at which point in time this happened, but eventually, the general public, my family included, shifted away from going up to places where Christmas trees are grown, and we began getting our trees at places that has since become one of the trademarks of a suburban Christmas.

The Christmas tree lot.

Come Thanksgiving, you can see the bones of Christmas tree lots going up in parking lots in front of Walmarts, Home Depots, Kohls, and other large retail establishments. All 2x4s and chicken wire or temporary orange, plastic fencing, the lots are put up fast, and built just well enough to last the month until Christmas without collapsing.

Then, on December 26th, they disappear like they were never there to begin with.

Get that Christmas shit out of here! We have pink hearts, chocolates, and cupid-themed cards to sell!

Ah, crass consumerism.

Anyway…

One year, my sister and I went with our dad to a K-Mart parking lot three minutes from our house to get our tree. If memory serves, I believe I was 10, and my sister was 6.

And my dad was in a hurry.

We went to the lot and got a tree in under 10 minutes.

At the time, my dad was driving this tiny green and white Dodge Dart. If you’ve never heard of the Dodge Dart, imagine someone assembled an oil drum with spare tires, a go-cart engine, and a radio that only picked up AM stations.

That’s the car my dad had and was attempting to strap a Christmas tree to.

Inside the car, ropes formed angular geometric shapes against the ceiling as they crisscrossed through slightly opened windows.

Outside, my dad grunted and swore as he tried to find anchor points on which to secure the tree to the four-cylinder soup-can of a car.

My sister was also outside because she was “helping.”

After several minutes of looping, tying, and testing the ropes, Dad was satisfied that the tree would remain affixed to the car’s roof long enough to withstand the three-minute drive home.

He told my sister to get in.

I’m not sure what went wrong. Was it my dad opening the driver’s side door? Or the rocking of the vehicle with shot shocks? Was it my sister opening the passenger door?

I can’t say for certain.

All I know is, I was looking out the window when the ropes above my head shifted.

A green blur flashed in front of the window accompanied by the shriek of a frightened girl.

Followed by the flash of a fat guy moving like an Olympic 100 meter sprinter.

I tried to open the door, but the rope held it shut.

My initial thought was, “Holy crap, my sister was just killed by our discount Christmas tree! Christmas is ruined! And not just this Christmas, but every Christmas!”

…followed by, “Maybe she did something to end up on the Naughty List? Boy, Santa’s not messing around this year.”

Visions of sugar plumb fairies on therapists’ couches danced through my head.

Then I heard the sniffling and short, sharp breaths that often precede tears, and I began to relax, because, as far as I know, corpses don’t cry (and if they do, I’d rather remain blissfully ignorant because that’s some horrifying shit).

Outside, my dad was comforting my sister, who was crying — not because she was hurt, but because, of all the things she expected to happen on our Christmas tree excursion, the tree falling off the car’s roof onto her wasn’t one of them. Luckily, the bulk of the tree had missed her. She had some scratches from some of the branches, but nothing severe enough to draw blood.

Once I saw there was no immediate danger, and that my sister was ok, I did what any big brother would do in that situation.

I laughed my nuts off.

If you’re the oldest sibling…you get it.

And if you are a younger sibling reading this, know that we as older siblings love you, but we can’t help but laugh when shit like that happens.

Don’t worry. There was no lasting trauma. Neither my sister nor I panic at the sight of Christmas trees. In fact, decorating the tree is still one of our favorite holiday activities.

Nowadays, we have a fake, mechanized tree which has the ability to slowly rotate and lights pre-attached. Eleven months of the year, it lives at the bottom of a hallway closet.

No Christmas tree lots. No undersized cars involved. No risk of falling or bodily injury...for the most part.

And, consequently, no adventure or chance for hilarity.

Eh, maybe one day I’ll return to the Christmas tree farm, assuming there’s still one to travel to.

In the meantime, allow me to wrap this up by saying, Merry Christmas!

…and watch out for falling trees.

***

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