Getting the Christmas tree properly anchored in its moorings and artistically lit was my father’s annual job. As with many things, he had his own accompanying idiosyncrasies. In this case, our tree sat not in any type of Christmas tree stand but in a galvanized bucket filled with pieces of coal. All doors leading to the living room remained firmly shut during this annual ordeal, my father’s grunts and groans the only clues as to his ongoing success or failure.
Trees came and went. Light styles and types evolved. Our one Christmas constant was the immutable
