OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

Atkins Family Yuletide Traditions

As is the case with many families, Christmas is a time of tradition at my house. When early December rolls around and the air becomes crisp, the children—now all grown—gather once again at the family home place for the trimming of the tree. I make that annual climb to the attic to retrieve the decorations, each one a small piece of family history with a story all its own. Then I bolt the Christmas tree into its stand and carefully place it in the corner of the living room while Norman’s Tabernacle Choir—a long story for another time—provides a background of joyous holiday music.

We light a fire in the fireplace and drape strings of colorful, twinkling lights. Then we carefully hang each ornament and bauble on the tree before tossing handfuls of

tinsel to finish the effect. We address Christmas cards and put antlers made of felt on the dog. We bake festive cookies and stir up a bowl of holiday punch. And later, when all the preparations are completed and the gaiety and love are at their absolute peak, the Atkins family gathers in the parlor and engages in that most wondrous of all Yuletide traditions.

We lie to my wife about how much I gave for the tree.

The origins of many traditions are lost in the mists of antiquity, but I know exactly when this one began. When I was a youth, it was my job each year to go get the Christmas tree. My family lived out in the country with woods all around, and I got in the habit of cutting down the biggest thing I could find. Old habits die hard, I suppose, so when my first married Christmas rolled around, I once again went out with the intention of finding and dragging home a large tree. Unfortunately, I no longer lived in the country, and as it turned out, in the city you weren’t allowed to just chop down the one you liked. In fact, you had to buy the tree, and since someone else had done the work, they were expensive.

Despite the strange ways of city folk, I had to have a Christmas tree, so I located one I thought would do—which coincidentally just happened to be the biggest tree on the lot—and I bought it. This was in 1975, and I gave $19.95 for that tree. To put this sum into perspective, you need to realize that at that time I was earning about $2.75 per hour. So I gave what amounted to a day’s pay for my first store-bought Christmas tree before tying it on top of a $50 Buick Electra 225—affectionately known as the Gray Whale—and beginning the drive to our $60-per-month apartment.

On my way home, I began to have buyer’s remorse. Nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents was a staggering amount of money. I had blown a hole in our budget large enough for Santa, the sleigh, and all nine reindeer to pass right through, with maybe room for a couple of elves as well. Yes, nine. You forgot Rudolph, didn’t you? Anyway, my wife was and is a practical woman, and I knew I was going to be in trouble when she found out about my exorbitant expenditure. But what was done was done, and a man’s just got to stand tall and be a man. So when I got home, I did the right thing.

Wife: Wow. That’s a great tree. How much did it cost?

Me: $5.

Yes, I lied like a dog. I lied like a rug. I lied like a bad kid sitting in Santa’s lap. And of course, she knew it wasn’t a $5 tree. Five-dollar trees aren’t twelve-foot-tall, perfectly shaped, fragrant, Scotch pine works of art. But she let me get away with my deception, perhaps because it was Christmas, after all. Where I come from, that’s called permission, and a tradition was born.

The years passed and we had a passel of children. First one, then two, and finally all of them began accompanying me on my annual tree-buying excursion. And first one, then two, and finally all of them saw me pay ever-higher prices for our yearly tree before going home to swear on a stack of fruitcakes that we had spent only $5. And then finally, each stepped up to bear the torch and repeat the familiar and comforting words.

Wife: Wow. That’s a great tree. How much did it cost?

Designated Child: $5.

It makes a father proud.