The year I made Santa’s naughty list

Work in Progress by Ivan Morgan

They say confession is good for the soul. Let’s see . . .

Over 40 years ago, when I was a university student, my buddies and I had a great idea to make money. Young people need to understand that there was very little money about in the early 1980s, especially for destitute students. Why not sell Christmas trees, we thought one night in a drunken fog. The next day the idea still seemed good through our hangovers, so we set about making it happen.

First, we needed a lot in Churchill Square. Getting that is a story in itself. We got one and we set about cutting Christmas trees. The woods were full of snow and the going was hard. Back in the day it was the wild west and if regulations existed, we never knew about them. We cut trees wherever we found them. We cut a lot of trees.

The other Churchill Square lot owners – fisherman all – were suspicious of we students and told us the rule was no tree sold for less than $15 (pretty pricey back then). We had the choice to agree or have our trees mysteriously chain sawed up in the middle of the night. No worries, we assured our rough compadres, we were all about the money.

It was bitterly cold. I opted for cutting in the woods. Two other buddies stayed with the lot all day selling trees. It was better working hard in the woods than standing on pavement freezing all day.

Right from the get-go we were doing well. Demand was high and we were selling trees faster than we could cut them. As an economics minor, I suggested we raise the price to $20 a tree.  Good old supply and demand. Free enterprise at its finest. It worked, which put a spring in our frozen boots as we slogged through the drifts.

Then one icy morning I decided to stay in the lot and try selling. We were having a time. A cab company well known for bootlegging was a regular visitor to our lot, bringing hash, beer, and pizza, which was paid for out of the kitty.

Around lunchtime a band new Cadillac Seville pulled up and out stepped a 50ish well-dressed man chomping a big cigar. He went to a few lots and then came to ours.

“I am looking for a Scotch pine,” he said in a loud, brash Texan drawl. “Back home in Texas we always decorate a Scotch Pine. I have no use for your Newfie firs. Any of you fellas know where to get a Scotch Pine?”

Opening his wallet, he waived a bill at us.

“I’ll pay $100 American for a 10-foot Scotch Pine.”

We heard that. My buddy Steve stepped forward (his name isn’t Steve, but I doubt he’d appreciate me using his real name).

“I know exactly where to get a Scotch pine.”

Arrangements were made. Steve told our rich American friend to be back at six and he’d have his tree. Then he jumped in the truck and was gone.

Business was hopping and several hours later Steve was back with the tree, a beautiful ten-footer. A little after six buddy was back. He was a bit of a loudmouth and a braggart. He told us he was an oil executive with ExxonMobil. He was thrilled with the tree. For an extra $25 American we agreed to deliver it to his house and drag it into his foyer.

The lads said it was a big place on Circular Road with a huge living room and tall ceilings. Dude bragged to them of all the important folks he was entertaining over Christmas – from the Premier on down.

“I’ll show them how we do Christmas in Texas,” he told the lads as they struggled the monster tree into place.

For our troubles he gave us $50. We were over the moon. $150 American for one tree! Way to go, Steve! Our regular trees were being snapped up at $20 a go! We were making serious money.

Later that evening I got back to my little apartment, grubby, cold, tired, but happy. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and plopped down in front of the TV, lit a smoke and turned on CBC. It was the late-night news.

As I sat there, reporter Karl Wells was standing in Bowering Park with the evening’s top story – where an upset official was showing the media the stump where thoughtless vandals had stolen one of the three Scotch pines they had.

Ivan Morgan can be reached at ivan.morgan@gmail.com