Trimming the Tree Tradition for Pink Saturday!

Perry Como croons Oh Holy Night right in our very own living room. Mom and Dad, not completely convinced the newfangled invention called television is here to stay, have moved the trusty old radio only as far as the dining room.

“Truly a miracle," Mom murmurs, enchanted with the black and white snowy screen.

“Where do you want it?" Dad, stomping snow off his boots and hanging onto a freshly cut, sweet-scented, green spruce, hollers from the kitchen.

As Mom shows him the selected spot for this year's Christmas tree, I whip on my winter jacket, hat and mittens, speedily lace my figure skates, and flee—sailing down the street to the Dober Mining Location ice rink next to Trebilcock's house—making my getaway.

(I will not return until the strands of lights have all been safely unsnarled, sorted, and clipped to the tree.)

A man's job, Dad grapples, gripes, and grumbles, untangling the mess from the previous year, while I, skidding safely along the ice, hum Joy to the World and calculate the minutes until I'm sure the lights are strung in perfect symmetry. Only then, do I venture back to smooth the silver icicles with my little sister Connie, hang the old pink and lavender swirled balls, and watch while Dad plugs in the cord.

The lights flash on, flicker, and fade. Breathless, anxious, the family waits while Dad—grinding his teeth—screws a “good" bulb into each socket until at last the little tree is full-blown with multi-colored light. It is a masterpiece! Its shining stars sparkle in celebration, illuminating, reflecting Dad's grin which spreads from ear to ear...

Tradition!