The Hogans of Glenart

To understand this story you have to know how my father was about Christmas trees. Most people go to a garage, pick a tree, pay for it, go home -- case closed, done deal. Not Dad, for him buying the Christmas tree was nothing short of an expedition.

Sextons, a garden centre near us, used to get a container-load of trees every Christmas. This was unceremoniously dumped in a huge pile at the back of the shop -- you had to go and find your own. It was a kind of a nirvana for Dad. He would put on his hiking boots and his most disreputable clothes and we'd all head off to get the tree. Not just any tree -- The Tree -- perfection.

Dad would go diving into the mountain of trees -- flailing about -- trying to find the right tree. It had to be bushy but not too bushy, tall but not too tall. Every now and then he would emerge from the foliage and present a tree to my mother.

There, what do you think of that?

It's fine, let's buy it.

Hang on, there's another one over there, you hold on to that one.

He'd lunge off again leaving Mum with a tree in each outstretched hand and a resigned look on her face -- like Christ on the cross.

People often thought he worked there and would ask him to find them a tree -- no problem. I can remember him earnestly questioning one woman as to the height of her ceiling and whether she wanted a shedding or non-shedding tree. To Mum's increasing agitation he'd go looking for trees for other people and send them on their way whilst we continued on our quest. After what seemed like hours he'd find it -- the perfect tree. Like a big-game hunter's kill it would be strapped to the roof of the car and borne home in triumph.

My father died in the summer of 1984. Even though I was ten I knew, we all knew, that Christmas wasn't going to be easy. That's why we went to get the tree en masse. My older brothers Niall and Rory, my twin brother Enda and I all went with Mum. Fergal, one of the kids from the neighbourhood, came along too. Perhaps unwisely, we went back to Sextons.

Picking out the tree went okay - maybe with a little less gusto than usual but we got a tree we were happy with. Everything went fine until we went to Mrs Sexton to pay for it. Then Mum began to cry. We had become quite used to this -- Mum had cried a lot since that summer. We did the usual thing -- we put our arms around her and told her it was okay, gazing off into the middle distance, probably fighting off the tears ourselves. Meanwhile poor Fergal searched around desperately trying to find a hole in the ground to swallow him up.

I think it was our casual, almost co-ordinated response that confused Mrs Sexton.

What's wrong? What's wrong -- she asked.

As Mum choked out an explanation between the tears, Mrs Sexton became increasingly upset herself.

Oh you poor thing, that's dreadful, that's dreadful.

Some poor eejit chose this exact moment to come up to try and pay for his tree and had the head eaten off him for his pains.

Can't you see that this woman is upset

barked Mrs Sexton, probably glad of some form of release. He retreated -- terrified.

At this stage Mum had stopped crying and was more than a little embarrassed by the whole thing. Mrs Sexton was wonderful -- she wouldn't dream of taking money for the tree.

Pay me next year.

She gave us tulip bulbs for Dad's grave and told us to look after our mother at Christmas. We all nodded dutifully, even Fergal.

The tree was strapped to the roof of the car and borne home in triumph.