A Christmas Story: Whereupon a great deal of copy is devoted to the discussion of tree stands

"I gotta know what a $5 milkshake tastes like." --Pulp Fiction

By the time our family moved from Original Northwood to Oak Park in the summer of 1981, I was getting ready for the third grade at Lincoln Elementary and would be old enough that first winter (a snowy one) to take an active role in everything Christmas and Christmas trees. 

Those first few years in Chicagoland, we bought our trees from the local YMCA who, for a few weeks, turned their parking lot into a sweetly smelling pine forest. They were your regular parking lot trees and fit just fine into your regular sort of Christmas tree stands. A few years later (and for many years after), our family went to cut down our own tree. My dad grabbed a dulled and slightly rusty hand saw and tossed it in the trunk of our family car, while we, extra thick with winter outwear, all squeezed into the car for the drive to the place everyone thinks of when they think of “the midwest.” Rural Northwestern Illinois. I had no way of knowing at the time, but what started as a simple family outing, would become, to this day, my all-time favorite Christmas tradition.

Once we made it to Williams Tree Farm, still stiff from the long drive, we lumbered out into the cold, protected by layers of waffle-knit long underwear, puffy winter coats, knit caps, and mismatched gloves that always looked a lot warmer than they actually were. Massive work horses, hitched to wagons filled with other families of rugged individualists out to the groves of pine. 

Sure, you COULD walk to find your tree in the nearby rows, but the BEST ones were OBVIOUSLY at the FURTHEST fields. There were Frasers, Canaan and Balsam Firs, White and Scotch Pines, Norway and Colorado Blue Spruces. I had no idea there were so many different kinds of trees. Back then (and frankly, now too) in my mind, there were basically two different kinds of Christmas trees. The soft ones with long needles and floppy branches and the ones good for hanging ornaments.

Surrounded by acres of trees, our family of five now had a VERY IMPORTANT CHOICE TO MAKE. We had to get THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS TREE. And so began the searching and the “arguing.” My mom, ever practical, and (I suspect) quickly tiring of the blasts of chilly midwestern air that sliced right through her layers, usually fell for one of the first trees she saw. I was having none of that. 

“Moooooommm, we just go here, we can’t get that one,” I wailed! And after just a scant few minutes of family togetherness, our crew started to separate in opposite directions searching for THE PERFECT TREE. And then one of us would find it. Look around for confirmation, realize we were alone, then send up a flare to alert the others.

“Hey OVER HERE! I found IT!”

“WHERE?”

“I’m over here!”

“Where?”

“HERE!”

Search and Rescue trained we were not, but eventually the team congregated around one what was, for one (and usually only one) of us, THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS TREE.

“That one?!?!” I exclaimed in disbelief.

“Yeah, it’s so cute,” defended my little sister with the gentle soul who was always drawn to the small, differently proportioned and otherwise odd looking trees.

I always wanted a giant of a tree that would require a step ladder or a sturdy set of shoulders for decoration. Nothing less than 6 or 7 feet would do. My mom always asked the most important question, “Does it SPEAK to you?” That first year she asked the question, I scoffed. What does that even mean? But as the years passed by, we kids embraced the question and asked it of each other. Because if it doesn’t speak to you, it’s not for you.

No matter if it was Susanne’s year to pick a “miniature” pine, or mine to select a towering, iconic spruce, they all had one thing in common. Trunks that were massive and unwieldy to the average Christmas tree stands. 

Farm-fresh trees demanded something more robust and the farm had them (conveniently) for sale, but my mom, raised by frugal depression-era Germans, had complete and utter confidence that my dad—a somewhat more impulsive man raised in a brownstone in Brooklyn by Italian immigrants—would figure something out.

It turned out that that “something” involved a 5-gallon steel bucket normally reserved for car washing duty, wood scraps, a square slab of particle board and rope. Lots of rope. He wasn’t a carpenter or designer, or longshoreman, but he had tools and motivation, and sometimes that was enough.

The next day after our first visit to the farm, construction began. 2x4s hammered into that engineered-wood base, stacked, rising, forming a kind of frame that was perfectly sized to hug the sides of the steel bucket. Because who doesn’t keep their Christmas tree in a steel bucket?

My dad's design was massive and unwieldy and could, if called for, withstand the gale forces of The Windy City. An impossibly beautiful convergence of contradictory and incomplete ideas. It was somehow both over-built and under-engineered. The framing and stance of the stand was indestructible. And yet the gapingly wide mouth of the bucket, alone, would never keep a tree standing tall.

Securing the tree required imagination, improvisation and a lot of rope. Those early years of the stand, my dad was responsible for the lashing of yards of white cotton ropes first around the bottom branches of the tree, then tying them to various parts of the sturdy frame of the stand. My job was to hang onto the tree with this all going on.

“Okay, I think it’s good. Let it go,” my dad called from down below.

The tree invariably began to fall and I would grab hold and pull it right again.

This is a process that would be oft repeated with more layers of rope and knots and eventually, often an hour later, (and one year, the assistance of nearby furniture), the tree would stand tall.

In later years, as my half-hitch knot-tying skills improved, my father sent me underneath the pine canopy to secure the tree. My younger sister took on the role of tree-holder-upper. Ultimately selecting our tree, putting it up and decorating it was fully and always a 3-day endeavor.

40 years later, I'm the dad and I married into a much more efficient kind of tree stand. And for the honeymoon phase and a few years beyond it was a solid, if also imperfect stand. While no rope festooned with complicated knots, or sophisticated lashing techniques was required, the process still called for three of us to secure even our “parking lot” trees in the stand.

Up top, I reprised my roll as tree-holder-upper, jabbing my arm deep through prickly branches covered in still-soft needles (this is a markedly less pleasant task at the end of a tree’s stay in our living room when supple sweetly smelling needles have dried into hard and sharp daggers), to grab the trunk. My boy Peter, just old enough to turn 4 bracing screws and small enough to sneak under the lower canopy of branches would advance the long bolts. With each turn of the screw, the bolts inched closer to piercing the woody-flesh of the already dying scepter of the season of St. Nick. We dress it up in lights, but underneath it’s all very medieval. 

“Is it straight?” I shout to our third, standing purposefully at a distance so as to better judge. “How about NOW?!” “What about NOW!?” 

When my wife Sarah gives us the go-ahead, I bark out commands to the small person tucked in below. 

“No, RIGHTY-tighty. Not that screw, the other one….no the OTHER one!” 

Eventually, it all comes together. The tree stands alone. We’re only a little worn out, fingers dirty with sticky sap and dead pine needles. This was, for some time, one of my young family’s yearly Christmas holiday rituals and despite it all, it worked pretty well for us. 

Then about 3 years ago, our venerable stand, the one that was a decided upgrade from my father’s woodworking marvel, developed a massive leak! I mistakenly thought, “wow, this tree sure is thirsty” when I noticed an empty bowl the day after it was set up. Then I noticed a soaking wet blanket fortuitously placed below the cold metal legs of the stand. Because I am my mother’s son, (myself a half-frugal German), I used a few pieces of strategically-placed duct tape to fix the leak.

Honestly, the fix worked surprisingly well in the category of “keeping water from pouring through the ceiling of our downstairs neighbors” department. Unfortunately, now that the center spike meant to help secure the tree was gone, it took little more than a passing breeze or errant thought to send our tree—fully decorated—crashing to the ground sending ornaments and pets flying across the floor. 

And no matter how much deeper we sent the bolts into the trunk to find more secure purchase, the tree became more unstable with each subsequent fall. Eventually it just got to the point where I just shoved it backwards into a corner to keep if from crashing forward. We all got used to viewing a tree that was at a 60 degree angle.

This Christmas it would have been so 2020 to simply let out a sigh, shrug our shoulders and set up our somewhat functional duct-taped tree stand again this year. But every now and again the impulsive Italian side of me makes a quick decision. Now don’t get me wrong, I did read at least one article titled, “Best Christmas Tree Stands” first. But when Sarah found that the editors of Wirecutter recommended a German-designed model awkwardly (and somewhat suggestively) called the Krinner Tree Genie XXL, I announced aloud, “BUY IT!”

It’s absurdly expensive and yet is already in the running to be one of our more favorite purchases. It nicely balances efficient modern design with the appropriate level of medieval simplicity. Its clenched jaws snap open with the racket of a bear trap and ratchet closed with only slightly less ferocity using the power of a gear actuated foot crank. Click-click-click-cliiiick-click-cliiiiiick-Clickety-clack-cliiiiick—creak, click. GOTCHYA! The mighty green base even includes a water-level gauge that allows me to track how much the tree drinks daily. DATA! Crucially, without too much effort, a single, solitary person could set up a tree using this stand in under 5 minutes. UNDER 5 MINUTES!

If I’m honest, part of me really does miss my father’s homemade stand and the 3 days it took to get our tree set up. But the precision and ease of this new tech? It might just be a Christmas miracle.

Fortunately for me and all the traditions that actually matter, it still took three of us to get the tree up. 

“Hey, Peter, how does this thing work? Where are the instructions?”

Too small…I can’t read those. 

“Can you read them to me? Now…yeah okay, now go under there, I’ll hold the tree up, make sure the spike is in the center of the trunk…SAAAARAAAHH, come in here for a second…IS IT STRAIGHT?!”

Dad in Training: My son called me "fat."

"El-phan"

Am I doing it wrong? It's a question, dripping with guilt, that I'm sure hangs threateningly over most every decision, action and reaction we make as parents. Hang around me long enough (anytime over 10 minutes will do) and I'll admit to you that our son Peter is already an awesome kid, and on a day-by-day basis, I'm basically just trying not to screw him up.

And so, as the stay-at-home dad, I usually--sometime after mom comes home and has a great time with the same kid who I, not 40 minutes ago, barked at for splashing the dogs water out of the bowl--in a quiet moment, kind of hate myself for losing my mind earlier. Over what? A 20-month old splashing some water around the kitchen floor (which could probably use a little washing anyway)? Unfortunately, as my son fast approaches his 2nd birthday, feelings of worry and doubt started way back and do not look to be letting up anytime...ever.

In the beginning, too soon after the pure, deafening joy of my son's birth, I thought, "I don't think I spoke and sung to him enough when he was in utero." And I never, NOT ONCE, played him any Mozart through headphones pressed against Sarah's belly. As it turns out, according to Dr. Deborah Campbell, director of neonatology at The Children's Hospital at Montefiore not only is there no good evidence that you can in fact craft a baby genius by such technique, adding more noise to an already noisy womb, by way of loud speakers, is probably not a great idea. So PHEW!

"Gi-tar!"

Content in the knowledge that my quietly sung and thoroughly ridiculous made-up "I love you little
guy you're awesome" songs combined with early Tom Waits (see I am cool!) and Glee cast albums (see I am...uhm...) on road trips, I have moved on to other worries.

Namely language acquisition and development. I recall from a Developmental Psychology or Cognitive Science class I took in the way-way back at Vassar College, that an infant's brain is overflowing with almost limitless potential. But if you wait too long, the baby's brain will have "pruned" itself and will no longer be able to distinguish some of the subtle and almost imperceptible (to us) differences in, for example, some Asian language sounds. I haven't googled, or searched my old textbooks for a definitive answer, because I already suspect, and do not particularly want to be reminded, that because of me, my son will likely never speak perfect Mandarin.

And so, using the "better than nothing" theory of parenting, I sometimes speak and read to him in the only other language I sort of know. German. Despite the country's position as one of the world's most important, learning it's language is decidedly less so. No matter, we still count numbers in the elevator (I also add Spanish and mom remembers her HS French), I sing the alphabet to him with my best Teutonic accent. Knives and forks are also das Messer und die Gabel at Mittagsessen.

One particular day, I thought I must also teach him the German word for father. Right, duh? "Der Vater" or the more cuddly version, "Vati." In German the "V" is pronounced more like an "F" and so "daddy" will sound more like "fah-tee." Peter picks up new words at an alarming rate. And add to that the general rules of toddler verbal truncation, and Peter had both his mother and I laughing out loud when he pointed and called me "fat." Lesson learned. We'll stick with "da-DEE" for now.

Powers of keen observation (I'm working out and eating less), Mandarin language and grown-up cup drinking deficiencies aside, Peter continues to amaze us every day and excels in the field which to me matters most. Recently Peter has been, with outstretched arms, asking for "fa-huh" and "fa-ki." It's a "language lesson" we started early on in his life and I plan on subjecting him to "fa-huh" and "fa-ki" well past the time he stops asking for them. Because there is absolutely and truly nothing better in the world then when your son asks for a "family hug" or "family kiss." So moms and dads, if you ever wonder if you are doing it right, I can assure you that if you smother your kids with hugs and kisses and love, you are. You are doing it very right.

Dad in Training: Stay-at-Home Winter Olympics

With the mountains of Sochi filled with abandoned 1/2 pipes, ski jumps whooshing now only as the crosswinds blow, and luge runs empty of athletes hurling themselves down icy tracks in toddler-tested methods (head first, feet first, really expensive sled first), you might think that the winter games are over.

But you would be wrong. The torch has been passed. There is an elite group of competitors packed away in an athlete's village called New York City. And we're all staring at a weather forecast that promises to dump another 8 or 10,000 inches of snow to be plowed and shoveled oh-so conveniently right in front of the place where you are supposed to cross the street. Also we can count on crusty mounds of blackened plow-snow to be blocking pedestrian access to our bus and subway stops. Stops that take us to family-friendly venues that will save our apartments from cabin-fever induced disaster management.

Why does my 19-month-old son Peter delight in taking every single book off the shelf and hurling it across the room with both the skill and deadly accuracy of a Norwegian Biathlete?

We are the stay-at-home parents of the 2014 Polar Vortex Games! And while I'm not a podium contender yet, I do have some top-tips to make sure you are wearing gold at the end of these winter games (which I predict to be sometime around Father's Day).

1. Get a membership. While the upfront investment of a few hundred dollars is significant, do a little math and you'll realize that being

   

   Not everyone minds the snow in NYC.

   
   

   able to drop into the Children's Museum of Manhattan or the Bronx Zoo at a moment's notice throughout the next year without worrying if you've got enough time to make the daily entry fee "worth it,"  is a gold-medal-winning move. Plus, romping around children's museums? Educational and fun! And being able to recite, "Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See?" while staring at two actual brown bears wrestling? Kind of Double awesome.
   
2. Get a backpack. No, not that kind. I'm talking the kind that you will carry your toddler to the zoo, the museum, the store, through subway turnstiles without a second thought at record pace. It turns every trip into a ride and your kid will love it. Plenty of parents embrace front-of-the-body packs like the Ergo or Baby Bjorn, but at some point they get shoved in the back of a closet and the omnipresent umbrella stroller comes out. And for an island that currently boasts snowy ridges blocking crosswalks, the stroller is just the wrong tool for the job. Strollers are for STROLLING. And in New York, we don't usually stroll. We walk (more quickly than rickety small plastic wheels can handle), we climb (up and down subway stairs), we run (for the bus), we do ("Ninja-quick" shopping trips at bodegas that pack more items in the same footprint that a suburban grocery store fits their Redbox and Coinstar vending machines.) My dad says he used to get looks carrying me around in a backpack...and that was in the 1970s. 40 years later, I get looks of surprise, followed by realization, a smile, then the comment. "Looks like he's got the best seat in the house." Yes, yes he does.
   
   
3. Get a snowsuit. In the world of Olympic and athletic competition, speed is of the essence. And let's face it; with the jackets, the mittens, the hats, the shoes (all of which routinely get torn off the second you get them on), it probably takes you 1/2 the day just to get crew ready to leave the house. But a good lined snowsuit with a long zipper will not only cut down on your prep time (pants optional!), but keep him warm as can be.  Also snowsuits make your super adorable kid even more so:

Dad in Training: Penny for your thoughts

In the most recent issue of Kiwi Magazine, editorial director (and world's greatest wife), Sarah Smith asked me to share a few thoughts about impending fatherhood. The following is what we had to say:

Muddy dog gets impromptu bath in chilly stream

Any day now, our dog Penny (and our cat Pepper) will have to make room for the new little guy my husband Marc and I are expecting in July. We've read the advice in "Let's Get a Pet!" (page 54) and are planning on bringing a baby blanket home from the hospital fro Penny to snuggle. Wish us luck!

As we spend this Father's Day waiting for the baby, I've asked my husband to share what he thinks about adding a not-so-furry member to our pack.

MARC SAYS:
For the record, we did not pick our pets as child-substitutes or parent-training tools. However, it's impossible to ignore the fact that they've taught me a few things I'm confident will help me earn a "World's Best Dad" mug one year.

1. I'm an excellent pooper-scooper--bring it on, baby, I'm ready!
2. Sometimes you keep the leash short and tight, other times, you just have to let them run free.
3. No matter how much you beg, bribe, huff, and puff, sometimes your baby isn't going to listen to you and will end up chasing after someone or something you don't approve of.
4. Even if you get frustrated and upset, at the end of the day, when you've dragged yourself home from work and you are greeted by "headbutt hugs" and sloppy kisses, you know that it's all worth it.

From our growing family to yours, Happy Father's Day, and have a great summer with your kids!

Sarah Smith
Editorial Director
Kiwi Magazine

Dad in Training: What's your name?

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about names. Last time around it was easy. Our dog, adopted from the Thompkins County SPCA in Ithaca, NY, needed a name that wasn't also the name of an off-brand soda collective. It didn't take long for my whip-smart wife to crack off the perfect name. Penny. Short for Penelope. Loyal, clever and true, in Homer's Odyssey, Penelope put off suitor after suitor seeking her hand and the throne, while  waiting for her husband Ulysses to return home to Ithaca from his battles in the Trojan War. Plus, we both thought Penny was a pretty name.

Almost 2 years later, we've got to come up with another name. And this time Homer hasn't been quite as helpful. Our little guy, giving us the High Five in the picture on the right, is going to be ready to be called something other than the adorable nicknames he's already acquired come late July. (How adorable? Too adorable for public consumption of course. Think puppies sleeping or kittens snuggling. Or sleeping puppies snuggling with kittens.)

At first people were quick to offer up suggestions, but after a day or two that well dried up. Maybe, like clothes, it's more fun to shop for girl names? Or maybe it had to do with our rule that you could only suggest names you liked. People sometimes love telling you all the "crazy" names you should never name your child.

"Yes...no, of course not...we would never name our child 'Rumer' (pronounced 'rumor')." With thanks to comedian Jeff Foxworthy, "You might be a crazy celebrity parent if..."

Fortunately, our struggle is not unique, and the world-wide web offers us lists. Lists of the most popular names, searchable by year. But wait, my child is unique and special and better than your child, and I am a fiercely independent Gen X-er, so why would I ever consider a popular name? Okay, forget the internet--the internet is for commoners. There must be something else? Something ancient and mysterious and helpful? Books, you say? What are these ancient tomes you speak of? Tell me more.

Baby name books come in many sizes and shapes. They have über-clever titles like 50,000+ Baby Names! The Baby Name Bible, 100,000+ Baby Names, and my favorite, the ironically titled The Complete Reverse Dictionary of Baby Names: Baby Names Made Easy. I'll pause now for a minute or two while you try to wrap your head around the concept of a "reverse dictionary of baby names."

Got it yet? No me neither. Let's move on then.

Anything that calls itself a bible must be definitive right? Plus it's got "50,000+" names in it. FIFTY THOUSAND! But wait, this other book has "100,000+" names. If my math is correct, that is twice as many names.

Before we see what actual gems these books have to offer, can we briefly discuss the "+" part of all three of these book's titles or subtitles? I imagine that some worn out editorial assistant got all the way up to 50,000 or 100,000 and then said, "No more counting for me. I'm done." What would have happened if editor of the "100,000+" book took his or her clearly superior stamina over to the "50,000+" book publisher's office?

The bible is easier to navigate than the reverse dictionary. First, go to the back half of the book for boys names, pick a letter and start reading. Each name comes with an explanation for your more complete understanding. The following is an actual entry:

"CELLO. Word name. If Viola is a credible girl's name, why not the mellow Cello for a boy?" (pg. 350)

Yes, why not? What a helpful suggestion! Cello...so mellow. I don't know though, what if you feel--in your belly--that you are going to have an agile child with a wide range of interests...Basoon? Do you expect raising a child to be a challenge...then French Horn is definitely your name.

After reading this actual musical suggestion in an actual book that is available from actual retailers, I promptly announced to my wife that I would be writing a baby name book. And the following was my actual first entry (I swear, ask her):

DOOR. Word name. Strong and solid, Door will both keep you safe and welcome you into his heart.

Of course 100,000+ beat me to it. "Dor" as it turns out is actually a Hebrew name for boys that means "generation." (pg. 494)

So, despite the suspect math and loosely defined use of the phrase "baby names," I guess these books still have a place in the preparation phase of becoming a dad. Breeze past the names that aren't for you, and think more about the others that strike the right chord.

Feel free to post your suggestions in the comments section below.