All That and Then Some

ALICE - How Soon Is Now?

WITH THE HOLIDAYS ONLY a week away, I've cajoled Vic into driving north of the city to a fresh Christmas Tree Farm. Most people have had a tree up since November (some since the minute after Hallowe'en), but I've never believed in that. Trying to explain to my kids that people *used* to wait until Christmas Eve to decorate a tree is like explaining that a phone line used to be shared by a whole neighbourhood block or that cars used to be started by winding a crank. Like all children, they have difficulty accepting a reality outside of what they've grown up with. I don't mean to brag, but I sometimes think Generation X is the last generation capable of this sort of mental leap between before and now because we grew up in a time where a lot of pretty significant stuff changed and we just had to roll with it. We're old enough to remember bosses dictating letters to stenographers because there was no email, mothers shouting "supper time!" down darkening streets because there were no cellphones, people smoking on airplanes, in restaurants, at work because — well, I'm not sure why really. Because they could and most people did.

Having lived through these massive shifts in tech and cultural norms, we find it easier both to imagine and remember things differently. And I remember getting a tree as a bright, twinkly signal that Christmas was just around the corner. You can't be just around the corner from something for a whole quarter of the year without losing a little magic.

So, when I announced this morning that it was finally tree-day, I expected some excitement. What I got was Maeve asking if we'd be back in time for her to do an afternoon shift at the cafe, Tim/othy grumbling about having virtual plans to meet his friends in the Minecraft netherworld (although he promptly changed his tune when he found out Viv was coming too) and a husband who, I swear to god, rolled his eyes at me.

"Do we have to go to the farm? Can't we just get a tree from the hardware store parking lot?"

"No, we can't!" I said, aghast at the very suggestion. "Does the hardware store parking lot have hot chocolate?"

"We could bring our own," he countered.

"Do they have horse-drawn wagons with hay and warm blankets that take you out into the fields?"

"You hate those wagons. You always worry you're going to get fleas."

He'd got me there. But I had one last card up my sleeve:

"Does the parking lot give you your own saw and let you hack a tree of your choosing down with your bare hands?"

He shook his head. He'd never admit it, but I know he secretly likes getting to use a saw in public. A fresh Christmas tree farm is just a bunch of men showing off in front of other men about how handy they are with a saw.

WHEN WE ARRIVE AT Tucker's Farm and finally find somewhere to stash the car (directly in the centre of the vast mud pit they call their parking area), we squelch over to the saw rental booth and get in line.

Vivian, who is fashionably but inappropriately dressed in a 70s disco rabbit-skin bomber jacket and shiny silver leggings, is already shaking in the cold and blowing on her hands.

"Here," I peel my fat mittens off, hoping to win back some favour with her after the underwear misunderstanding, and hand them to her. "Wear these. I have another pair in my backpack."

"Okay," she grudgingly accepts and I whip my bag around to my front to dig out my second pair of mittens.

"Vivian, may I interest you in a hot chocolate?" Offers my 13-year-old son in that vaguely British accent he's adopted.

"Um, sure. But I'll buy," she says, and they wander off to the bonfire where tree farm employees dressed as elves are ladling out smokey cupfuls from a big camp pot.