Christmastime. The Little League team was riding in the bed of my father’s truck. There were about ten Christmas trees back there.
It was late. The local decorations were already up downtown. There was a team of reindeer strung across Main Street. Rudolph was missing his antlers. Santa looked anemic.
Tonight, we were delivering Christmas trees.
It was our yearly tradition. Each year, my father gave trees to needy families. He got the trees from the church; he got the names from anonymous submissions. The free labor came from the Little League team.
We arrived at the first trailer home. It was a ratty place. No Christmas lights. Dilapidated car out front, up on blocks. My father double checked the address.
Several of us boys leapt out and hauled the Christmas tree to the porch. The lady who answered was Miss Karen. Her husband left her with two kids. She worked three or four jobs.
“I didn’t order no Christmas tree,” Miss Karen said, cigarette in the corner of her mouth.
“No, ma’am,” said my father, checking his clipboard. “You won this
tree, fair and square.”
“Won it?”
“It was a raffle.”
“I didn’t play a raffle.”
“Well,” my father said, pushing past her. “Someone must have submitted your name.”
“I don’t want this tree,” she said.
“And I don’t want to lose my job,” he said. “If I don’t give you this tree, they’ll fire me.”
She crossed her arms. “You’re a volunteer.”
But it was too late. My father had already burst into the lady’s house and was selecting the perfect corner. We placed it beside her television set. You should have seen the looks on her children’s faces.
The next place we stopped at was a shotgun house. There was a sofa on the front porch. We walked up to the front door with a tree in our arms. An old man appeared behind the screen door.…