Choosing Christmas tree evokes battle memories

By Robes Patton
Sports Editor
The Daily Sentinel, Scottsboro, Alabama, Thursday, December 19, 1985

The holiday season is supposed to bring out the best in people, but it doesn’t always work that way. Family tradition, as a matter of fact, can draw the worst from even the mildest-mannered group. I know I’m not alone in surviving battles over Christmas tree decorations, festive meals or holiday entertainment. Our family had a unique tradition of staging a mild riot as we decided on a Christmas tree. My parents provided a learning experience by going to the source -- well, as close as we could get -- for our tree. So we’d pile in the car and Sluggo (our affectionate moniker for Dad) would drive us down to the Los Angeles railroad yards -- which won’t ever be confused with a Montana mountain or Connecticut forest. What wildlife existed along the way won’t ever be mistaken as inhabitants of a national forest either. We’d zip off the freeway near City Hall and pass the downtown bus depot, which, speaking of tradition is traditionally tucked in the finest corner of our nation’s cities. We’d continue past the Midnight Mission, countless winos and the garment district before we’d find the temporary forest. Entering the packed railroad yards we’d watch the workers unload trees, listen to salesmen shilling, and wonder why the flocked trees didn’t melt and how it snowed pink and blue. Each of us would inevitably pick a different tree: one taller than the house could withstand, one fatter than the space between. My mother would always choose some funky fir that looked like something you’d clean anti-aircraft weapons with, and Sluggo would always worry about price. We’d wander around to the different lots and try to find a tree that had just been handed down from the boxcar. That way, we could be assured it was fresh from the ground, not exposed too long to the trappings (and air) of Southern California. We never considered the trees had been grown on a farm a good sleigh ride from L.A. It was strictly our version of scrambling through the woods in search of the properly nurtured sapling. As the night wore on and tempers grew short, we’d argue and complain in favor of our chosen pine, then barter with each other and offer our finely-tuned points of debate. Sluggo would end the squabble the way Dads usually do (as traditional as the holiday season itself): he chose what he wanted and said “No more arguing...and I don’t mean perhaps.” It’s been a few years since I’ve passed through the L.A. rail yards, but I’m sure the trees still arrive and the smell of Christmas trees wafts across the asphalt. And I’m sure, of course, that one or two arguments rage over which tree to buy, keeping alive another venerable holiday tradition.