A Christmas Carol

Here's a column I wrote back in 2001. Parents, share it with your spoiled, ungrateful teenagers.

SHOPPING FOR A CHRISTMAS TREE WITH TEENS? YULE BE SORRY

So there I am, minding my own business, watching “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” when a faceless being in a dark cloak floats into the living room.

“Are you the Grim Reaper?” I ask nervously, wondering if my recent chest pains were more than just indigestion. “Nope,” he replies in a strange, otherworldly voice. “Grim’s taking a few days off, but he asked me to tell you to keep eating those triple cheeseburgers and pepperoni pizzas. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’m here to show you this.”

Suddenly, the room fills with a vision of my excited, bright-eyed children, who can hardly wait to shop for our Christmas tree. “Can we please get our tree today, daddy?” they ask again and again. “Okay! We’ll get our stupid Christmas tree!” I reply, pretending to be annoyed by their pestering. (I’m actually just as excited as they are, but an effective father must occasionally exhibit a little holiday grouchiness, which is essential for raising respectful, well-behaved kids.)

We bundle up in our warmest coats and happily embark on our annual search for the perfect Christmas tree. On the road, the kids entertain themselves with loud off-key choruses of “Jingle Bells” and “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” At the tree lot, the real fun begins. Wired on complimentary hot chocolate and festive holiday cookies, the kids play a high-spirited game of hide-and-seek, accidentally knocking down a few trees in the process. I scold them, pretending to be angry at their rowdiness. Finally, after carefully examining every tree on the lot, we choose a beauty. Back at home, we merrily decorate our perfect tree while Bing, Perry, Nat and Andy serenade us with the world’s greatest Christmas songs.

The wonderful scene fades, and I’m now with the Ghost of Christmas Present, who shows me a troubling vision of an angry man (me) physically forcing his teenage children to go tree shopping. They’re obviously no longer interested in participating in an evening of family-oriented Christmas cheer. My daughter wants to stay home so she won’t miss her nightly phone call from her special friend, the one who has a voice lower than mine. My son, who’s developing his own low voice, wants to stay home so he can call his special friend, and ruin her father’s Christmas spirit. My sad wife looks at me and mumbles something about “the good old days.” I drive our pickup to the nearest tree lot, a dreary, undecorated, depressing place. There are no Christmas carolers. There’s no beautiful manger scene with live sheep. There’s no fake Santa Claus with miniature candy canes for the kids. And I’m almost certain that the burly, tattooed proprietor would attack me with his chain saw if I ask for complimentary hot chocolate and festive holiday cookies. After halfheartedly looking over the meager selection of trees, I grab one that is less ugly than the others.

“How about this one?” I ask, desperately hoping that somebody will reply, “No, dad! That’s a terrible tree! Let’s go somewhere else, somewhere with good trees.” But that didn’t happen.

“Yeah, that one’s fine,” says my uninterested daughter, who obviously wants to go home and talk with “Mr. Low Voice. “Can we go now?”

I glumly drag the tree to the cash register. Wham, bam, I pay the man. The entire tree-shopping experience takes less than five minutes.

As we drive home, I try to improve my mood by playing a CD of classic Christmas music. “Can’t we listen to the Dave Matthews Band instead?” asks the future Mrs. Low Voice. I lose control. “DON'T YOU KNOW THAT THE HERALD ANGELS ARE SINGING?! CAN’T YOU SPARE A FEW MINUTES TO ‘HARK?!’" The horrible vision is more than I can bear, and I begin to sob.

Suddenly, the Ghost of Christmas Future takes my hand and shows me a well-dressed sixty-something gentleman watching his two bright-eyed grandchildren play hide-and-seek in a cheerful, well-lit Christmas tree lot. He laughs heartily as they accidentally knock over a tree. He softly sings along as “White Christmas” plays over the loudspeakers. He sounds just like Bing Crosby. There’s something strangely familiar about this obviously intelligent, incredibly cool, unbelievably charming, remarkably fit grandfather who hasn't had a triple cheeseburger since Christmas of 2002. I realize that the man is me, and the grandchildren are mine.

I can hardly wait.

Mark Mayfield can also sing exactly like Perry Como.