What’s with this Ho-Ho-Ho?
Our premier “sapin de Noël.”
Mixed emotions…
Like many other people, I anticipate the holiday season with mixed emotions. I’m told that my first encounter with jolly old Saint Nick did not inspire childlike wonder but rather a skeptical query of “what’s with this ho-ho- ho?” However, my sentimental Italian father was deeply committed to his vision of true Christmas spirit. Each fall we would travel to a tree farm in Vermont to catch the autumn foliage and to “tag” our tree. We would return nearly two months later to trudge through December snow, cut down the tree, and strap it to the roof of our Dodge station wagon for the journey home. Every year my parents had the same energized “discussion” standing beneath the towering tree with us kids shivering in snow suits. “Joe, you’ve overdone it again; this tree will never fit in the dining room!” He would respond with false assurances that the 12-foot beauty would just need a little trim. I recall several years where the “trim” was nearly three feet to allow for my favorite glittery spire to top the tree and still clear the “cathedral” dining room ceiling in our 1960 split-level.
My endlessly patient mom would just stand by and shake her head as Dad struggled to safely support the tree and then maneuver strings of lights around its enormous girth that left barely an inch of breathing space between it and the dining table. An additional undercurrent of tension lay between my artistic mother’s sensibilities and my dad’s hopelessly gaudy aesthetic that inspired the red carpet in the kitchen and ‘70s orange shag in the family room. I often wondered how he and Michael Angelo could both be sons of Italy.
For decorating the tree, Dad always insisted on an abundance of the big colored bulbs with the bonus of a star shaped reflector behind each one; enough to illuminate a Logan Airport runway. After we jammed as many ornaments as possible on the tree, he drenched every bough with strands of silvery tinsel. And no Christmas morning would be complete without him in his ratty flannel robe orchestrating and filming our “grand descent” of the modest five-step stairway while still in our pajamas. In each year’s masterful production, we are squinting in the glaring lights of his Kodak Super 8 movie camera and overshadowed by the massive tree.
Photos: (1) A rare Christmas Day glimpse of the “movie director” ( my younger brother next to the tree) one year when Mom won the battle to opt for a smaller tree in the basement level family room. (2) Christmas in the late ‘80’s, shortly after Dad’s passing. My sister sitting on the stairs we came down as kids; beside her a tree of stature and decoration Dad would have approved.
Still dubious…
Over 60 years hence, I’m still dubious about much of the holiday “hoopla.” I am also a bit conflicted about my decision to not spend Christmas in Boston this year with family and friends, especially with my 97-year-old mom. The choice to visit her in early November instead of the holidays, was two pronged. My primary concern was to avoid the inevitable contraction of COVID, flu, or some other celebration-spoiling-ailment of the last few Christmases due to traveling cheek-to-jowl with other unmasked, symptomatic, but determined holiday pilgrims. But there was a secondary motive to staying here in France. I hoped to anchor this place as truly home through the nesting spirit of Christmas. Although we’ve been in Pau during the holiday season previously, this is the first time we will celebrate as expats and not just part-time interlopers.
The early days of this season, ripe with anticipation, have not disappointed. Although the celebrations in France have many parallels with the states, there is less commercial emphasis, despite recently latching onto the “black Friday” concept. In France the notorious shopping day doesn’t kick off with mid-night mall hysteria, drag its way to the 25th, and culminate in a maddening rush of returns on the 26th. The scaled-down French version is simply four days of not to miss sales in fabulous boutiques, jewelry stores, and “librairies” (bookstores).
Thankfully, the traditional French Christmas markets still dominate over mall madness. From agricultural towns to grand cities like Paris, Toulouse, and Nice, the quintessential temporary wooden A-frame “huts” are erected and inhabited for the season by local artisans and food vendors. Draped with garlands of twinkling lights, they beckon early evening and weekend strollers to procure hot drinks and snacks while seeking out unique and meaningful presents. We are lucky to be a short walk from multiple clusters of these delightful villages nestled under palm trees or in historic parks and squares. Even “sans” wallet, they make a perfect excuse for an evening stroll. On Christmas Eve, Père Noël will more likely leave just a few small gifts in shoes left under the tree (in lieu of Christmas stockings) rather than a bag load of soon forgotten toys. Adults favor finding just one meaningful and perhaps relatively expensive gift over several less mindful presents for their “chérie.”
Photos: Pau Christmas Markets
The main event…
But naturally for me, the main event of the season would be to purchase and decorate our first Christmas tree in Pau. Commensurate with my family history, it proved to be a bit of an adventure. First and foremost, there are no pop-up parking lot Christmas tree markets equipped with chain saws and electric shrink wrap machines. So, the first mystery to solve was where to buy a tree, especially early in December as many families wait until a week before, or even on Christmas Eve, to erect a tree. Since JB is usually itching to take our tree down on the 26th, along with the increasing accumulation of shed needles, I typically push for an early tree trimming. Luckily, JB spotted a handful of promising apartment sized trees at a local garden center when he was out on an early morning bike ride.
We headed there that afternoon with child-like anticipation. In our excitement we mistakenly arrived before the official conclusion of the noon to two o’clock lunch period. The parking lot gate was closed and not a soul was in sight. We continued onward to two other larger garden centers, hoping that they might be open thanks to American style staggered lunch breaks. But alas, they were also locked tight, so we ended up back where we started, as it was closer to home and by then open for business.
We wandered around the modest collection of trees; most of them under six feet to suit the French “less is more” mentality. I was aiming for something about my height anyway so it would easily tuck into a small open spot in our apartment. JB, who is a militarily efficient shopper, quickly spied a perfectly pudgy, but balanced specimen. I had to remind him we weren’t in the USA and to resist the urge to just grab the tree himself. The concept of service is prized in French culture, and those who work in that arena (like waiters, shop keepers, and even many government clerks) are proactive in their assistance and take pride in having expert knowledge to guide your purchase or process.
So, JB waited for me to catch the attention of a young woman re-arranging plants to assist us. My first teachable moment of the day was when I asked for her help with “un arbre de Noël,” the literal translation of Christmas tree. She quickly, but politely, corrected me with the question “le sapin de Noël, madame?” Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed the large banner with the correct moniker suspended above the trees. She took our perfectly petit “sapin” to a galvanized tin contraption, resembling the bell of a tuba perched on a flimsy stand, to wrap the tree in a snug sleeve of super fine netting. I had a vague childhood memory of an apparatus like this but had assumed this old-fashioned method of prepping a tree for transport had long been replaced everywhere by a modern motorized version.
The young woman inserted the trunk end of our tree into the wide mouth of the “tuba,” walked around to the other end, and proceeded to yank the tree through a narrow exit and into the spool of netting. While she and JB simultaneously braced the stand from collapsing under the strain of her efforts, our ardent helper failed to notice that the remaining netting was only sufficient to cover about a third of the tree’s length. So, despite the tree’s petite stature, its generous middle became lodged in the bell. With part of it now condensed in netting and part bulging out of the wide end, it resembled a half-stuffed sausage. I would like to have snapped a photo of this hilarious stalemate but resisted, sensing the young woman’s frustration and growing embarrassment.
At this juncture the store manager joined the fray. After much discussion and circling of the conundrum, the two women finally wrangled a new spool of netting in place and completed stuffing our tree into its casing. But the drama wasn’t quite yet finished. Since most of the “sapins” have a trunk diameter too small for the standard tree stand, we learned that the common French alternative is to drill a hole in the round top of a split log for perching the tree. I asked how we would keep it from drying out, and she advised us to use a spray bottle of water around the base of the trunk daily. I silently doubted this approach and just hoped the tree was fresh enough to last until Christmas without igniting an inferno requiring the services of the “pompiers.”
Meanwhile, the drama continued. All the tree trunks had been whittled to fit one of three different log hole sizes, but our tree proved to be a misfit. The determined women spent several more minutes swapping one log base for another without success. Though hesitant to interfere, JB finally offered to trim the trunk himself at home. Their relief was palpable, and I gratefully showered them with “merci beaucoups.”
A sense of humor…
We were all able to share a laugh in the end. I used my stumbling French to thank them for their patience, explain that this was our first “sapin de Noël” in France, and confess that the new vocabulary associated with its purchase was a challenge. My willingness to blunder through a conversation in minimally adequate French garnered the manager’s sympathy and an enthusiastic “Bienvenue!” (welcome). Now more at ease, and obviously happy to have participated in our seminal purchase, she repeatedly employed the only English words she appeared to know: “okay” and “thank you.” Both were delivered in the most fabulous, exaggerated “valley-girl” accent I have ever heard outside of southern California. I burst out laughing and complemented her accent, much to her delight. Having a sense of humor goes a long way towards crossing cultural divides.
Our final tree challenge was to find strings of lights and a few colorful sparkly bits to fill in the gaps between ornaments collected since childhood. None of these items had been available where we purchased the tree. This may seem odd to our American sensibilities, but the shopping culture here generally prefers specialization over all-encompassing convenience. We’re still learning what type of store will carry a particular product as well as a new logic for where items are located within a market .
For example, eggs (fresh and local) and milk (in ultra-pasturized cartons) are not refrigerated. Over-the-counter drugs like cold medications and ibuprofen, are sold in pharmacies, not supermarkets. Similarly, Christmas tree ornaments weren’t available at our local “super marché” even though it carried gift wrap and some other holiday essentials. Fortunately, while sipping herbal tea in a cozy café with my French friend Isabelle, who meets with me weekly to alternately practice our opposing languages, I discovered we had originally been on the right track. She advised me as to which large home and garden center in the area would offer the missing sparkle.
Christmas spirits…
Finally content with our tree trimming results, JB and I now spend “l’heure de l’apéro” (cocktail hour) settled in the warm glow of candlelight and the twinkle of understated, small white lights on the tree. Although we have just enough sparkle without my dad’s beloved tinsel, I feel his presence. And while we recap the minor achievements of the day, we also contemplate the memories represented by each ornament that made its way over the Atlantic and to on this premier sapin de Noël. In these peaceful moments I recall the joy and chaos of many a Christmas past and feel the eternal love of those who are with us now only in spirit.
Photos: A few of my favorite things…
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