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. “What’s this?” the old man said.

“A balsam fir,” said Daddy. “What’s it look like?”

“I didn’t ask for a tree.”

My old man checked his clipboard. “It says here your daughter bought it for you.”

“I don’t have a daughter,” he said.

We set the tree up in the corner. And in a few minutes, we were all riding across town again.

Next, we arrived at a house that looked like it was going to fall over. The clapboards were gray. The roof had a blue tarp. My father threw the truck into Park. He had a visible reaction when he saw this house.

We brought the tree to the porch. There was a young woman standing at the door. She was pregnant. The inside of the house was squalid. There were kids running around everywhere.

My father placed the tree in her den. The young woman started crying. She threw her arms around my father. My father just hugged her and wished her a merry Christmas. And he looked like he was about to lose it.

When we all got back to the truck, my dad started crying. When I asked why he was crying, he took a long time to gather himself and finally answer.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “All that matters is that those kids know someone cares.”

Years later, I was an adult, my father was many years dead, and I was driving past that very same house with my uncle riding shotgun. I remembered the house vividly. So I pointed it out to my uncle, and told him the story of the Christmas tree delivery long ago.

My uncle said, “Yes, I can see why your dad would have been upset about that house.” Then he wiped his own eyes. “That’s the house where your dad grew up.”

Funny what you remember at Christmas.