I remember the Christmas tree man who drove through the neighborhood a week before Christmas Day. He had a very old truck that sounded like it might explode, but it never did. People said he lived alone on a farm where he grew corn, pumpkins, potatoes, and watermelons, but tucked away on ten acres of his land, he grew what he truly loved: Christmas trees. His great-grandfather planted them decades ago as saplings, and he told his grandson they would grow and flourish as the years passed by leaving them alone. True to his word, the trees grew up, and he'd thin them out, taking some of them to town in the bed of his truck to sell. People loved his perfectly shaped trees, so he sold out in just a couple of hours, telling folks he'd be back tomorrow with more. Little did he know a great depression was coming, and people couldn't buy a Christmas tree when so many were starving and out of work. He decided he would continue going into town with trees in the bed of his aging truck, but not to sell, but to give away to families who had nothing to give their children come Christmas morning. But he had no idea how many were in need.
So rather than taking them to town, he drove through the poorest parts of the city and gave a tree to anyone who swallowed their pride, asking for one their kids could decorate with paper ornaments and give their shacks a feeling of Christmas. He became known as the Christmas Tree Santa. Year after year, he'd drive slowly down the streets, his old truck rumbling and blowing some smoke but always reliable. After the Depression ended and people got back on their feet, he kept roaming the city streets, his truck on its last legs, giving away trees to anyone who held out their hands. When he was too old to tend his farm and deliver trees, his son, my dad, took over and, with my help, filled the back of Dad's newer truck, which held twenty trees when full. Town folk remembered my granddad and his kindness when things were tough, and repaid him by purchasing every tree we brought to town. When my dad grew older and couldn't work the farm, I took the reins and continued where he left off; by then our economy was flourishing, and I started a nonprofit that gave away free trees to the less fortunate. We had three trucks, each carrying fifty trees, that drove through streets where poverty was the way of life, then stopped and opened the truck's doors, the smell of pine a reminder of Christmas, filling the air. My son runs the business now, with trucks numbering in the dozens that leave the tree farm every year, taking only the trees ready to be cut and replacing them with saplings left to grow alongside their ancestors, who patiently awaited their trip to town and into the hands of a grateful family. Great-granddad's old truck went through a major restoration and now participates in the Christmas parade, waving to the people he once gave a tree so their kids could have a Christmas morning. It still smokes a little, and we half-accept it to explode, but it never has and never will.
Mike 2026
Mike 2026
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