We didn't have a tree. My dad had as much pride as anybody, I suppose, so he wouldn't just say that we couldn't afford one. When I mentioned it, my mother said that we weren't going to have one this year, that we couldn't afford one, and even if we could—it was stupid to mess up your house with a dead tree.
About three days before Christmas, I was out collecting for my paper route. It was fairly late—long after dark—it was snowing and very cold. I went to the apartment building to try to catch a customer who hadn't paid me for nearly two months— she owed me seven dollars. Much to my surprise, she was home. She invited me in and not only did she pay me, she also gave me a dollar tip.
On the way home, I walked past a Christmas tree shop and the idea hit me. The selection wasn't very good because it was so close to the holiday, but there was this one real nice tree. It had been a very expensive tree and no one had bought it; now it was so close to Christmas that the man was afraid no one would.
He wanted ten dollars for it, but when I told him what I had, he said he might sell it for that. I really didn't want to spend the whole money on the tree, but it was so pretty that I finally agreed. I dragged it all the way home— about a mile, I think— and I tried hard not to damage it. I arrived at home at last. My heart was bursting as I announced that I had a surprise.
"Where did you get that tree?" my mother exclaimed. But it wasn't the kind of exclamation that indicates pleasure. After she knew the truth, she said that I was going to end up in the poorhouse because I believe in stupid things like Christmas trees. My mother had never talked to me like that before and I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
