When it comes to buying a Christmas tree, we are always late, and then there is often not much choice. Prices will drop at the end of the month. However, this year even the most shabby brooms are worth a fortune. War, supply chain disruptions, and inflation also don’t stop until Christmas. That is why many friends do without it. Or out of principle, out of love for trees. Which I think is absolutely correct.
On the other hand, the Christmas tree market is run by a foundation that reintegrates those who have been released from prison. She also runs a restaurant in town and I swear you won’t find more attentive and friendly service anywhere.
The American justice system is horribly corrupt, profit-oriented prisons are a disgrace to a civilized country, conditions are mostly unimaginable, inhumane, cruel. And contradictory conditions do not allow the majority of those released from places of deprivation of liberty to get on their feet. If only there were no such organizations.
It’s an exceptionally cold afternoon, and an almost wintry atmosphere as we rub our hands and stamp our feet. “I can help you?” We are looking at a meager selection of trees and we are not the only ones. Clerks in red jackets and sweaters are busy.
After a while, Russ joins us, a surprisingly fat man wearing only a red short-sleeve T-shirt with the organization’s logo on it. As he gets closer, it becomes clear that his good humor, red nose, and insensitivity to cold probably also amount to one or two shots. But he understands trees, takes us back and forth, explains the difference in price and points out different smells. “It should smell like Christmas too!”
When we’ve made a decision, he waves to an older man who’s been leaning against the fence waiting. He has a tattered coat on, and when he smiles shyly at us, we can see that he has almost no teeth.
“This is Frank,” Russ says. He will bring you a tree. Then he takes me aside. “We don’t work on commission,” he says quietly. “But we’re grateful for the good advice.” I’m finding it a little straight forward now, but hell, Christmas is coming soon, and whatever I’ve lost this year, I’m probably better than Russ. So I reach into my pocket. Russ grabs my hand. “Not at all!” he exclaims indignantly. — Not for me, for Frank! The poor fellow has one foot on the street. He is not part of our organization directly, but we help him a little in secret.”
I nod, embarrassed and touched at the same time. “Yes, sure.”
Frank ties our tree with rope, hoists it over his shoulder, and follows Victor to his truck. “God, what a great truck!” he exclaims. And, carefully attaching the tree to the back of the truck, he spontaneously hugs Victor. I slip him a note, he also hugs me and wishes us both a happy holiday. I watch him shuffle back into the trees and lean against the fence. Russ, who is already serving the next customer, turns to me and gives me a thumbs up.