Dad’s Tree. Santa Returns. - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, Columnist
Dad’s Tree. Santa Returns. - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
Dad decorated a Christmas tree the way he did everything else, with pride. No, it was not the best or the most adorned, and it would not win any prizes. But it was one of a kind.
He tied it to the roof, drove it home, secured it in the stand, and positioned it by the largest window. Dad strung the lights in a spiral, hung the ornaments, draped the tinsel, stuck the star on the top, and stood back. Perfect.
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLASTMy first memory was of the blur of lights, a glow that filled the corners of my eyes with mist. His tree was as green as a summer day and smelled as fresh as forest evergreens. Against the window, it collected streams of winter light that bounced off the ornaments and the tinsel, filtering through the branches to the walls and the carpet.
In the heart of the tree was Dad’s favorite ornament, Santa. “I bought that Santa when you were born. It’s as old as you.” Made of cloth, stitched and glued, he was no more than four inches high, wore a tall red hat with a white cotton rim, a long red jacket that hung to his knees, light blue pants, a tan sack over his left shoulder and black boots. His droopy, pink face and blue eyes seemed to sing with the season’s joy.
Year after year Dad hung his Santa. I married and had children. On Christmas Day, Dad strolled to his tree, pointed and smiled, “That Santa is as old as your father.”
Over the years, Santa aged; his beard turned from white to tan, he lost his left hand, his pants drooped, pine needles stuck to his boots, his sack shriveled, the piping on the front of his jacket needed stitching, the cotton withered. But his joy continued.
My Dad died in 1996. We bought a small tree for Mom and decorated it, never failing to place the Santa. Mom died six years later. As we discarded the old decorations, I panicked. Where was Santa? At the last moment, I found him, surrounded by hunks of tinsel, attached to Mom’s tree. I captured him. He now took his place on my tree. “See that Santa. Pop bought it when I was born.”
One year, I misplaced Santa. In a panic, I searched everywhere to no avail. Oh dear! Santa missed Christmas for the first time. The following year I found him, lying at the bottom of a box of ornaments, smiling, or maybe smirking. I took a deep breath as memories resurfaced and melted into tears. “I found him! I found him!”
Santa returned to the heart of our tree. As our grandchildren arrive on Christmas Day, I direct them to the tree. “See that Santa. He’s as old as I am. Pop bought him when I was born.”
Dad’s tree will ever remain one of a kind … ours.