Blue Spruce

     With the final touch of trimming their Christmas tree, my parents had finished setting up and decorating for Christmas at last. It was a December night in 1989, and my Mom’s parents were visiting them in Post Mills, Vermont,  joined by one of my dad’s college friends, Kevin Bourke. As the five of them stood around the tree, taking in its beauty, my dad thought back on an experience from his childhood, when he was twelve or thirteen. He proceeded to tell my mom, grandparents, and Kevin Bourke that story. 
     It was the late 1970s, and my dad’s parents had just finished setting up their tree at their house in Bethesda, MD, a suburb of Washington D.C. The tree was a blue spruce that towered over my dad in height. It was decorated with colorful strings of lights and family ornaments that put my dad’s entire family in the Christmas spirit.
     My dad soon began having trouble breathing, and by nine that night, a few hours after setting up their tree, his parents took him to the hospital. With a nebulizer strapped to his face, he regained his ability to breathe normally at last. What had caused his reaction was a mystery to my dad and his family, but the doctors soon connected the dots that the tree had been what caused my dad to have the asthmatic experience he did. When they got home from the hospital, the Christmas tree came down. It turned out, my dad was allergic to blue spruces.
     As my dad finished recounting the story to his listeners in Post Mills, Kevin Bourke looked at the tree with suspicion. Before anyone could stop him, he took hold of the tree and dragged it out of the front door. The tree had been perfect, fully trimmed with lights, strings of popcorn, ornaments, and other decorations. Kevin proceeded to toss it unceremoniously into the snow.
     My mom’s parents were aghast, and my mom and dad looked at each other, dumbfounded. Kevin looked only a little sheepish when he returned inside.
     Whether or not my parents ever brought the tree back in, they don’t remember. But what they do remember is that ever since then, my grandmother’s rule – “never buy a Christmas tree before my dad’s birthday, December 7” – was joined by another one: “never, ever buy my dad a blue spruce.”