No Free Shows

The day a tradition began and the boy I saw in my father’s smile

By the time the leaves began to change I had fully surrendered to the idea.

It had taken nearly a year, but the dream of decorating the towering Norway Spruce in our front yard was no longer just a passing thought. It had become something more. A quiet obsession. Every drive home. Every glance out the front window. Every conversation about Christmas. All of it seemed to circle back to that one tree.

It stood there, tall and untouched, like it was waiting for someone to believe in it.

And I believed in it.

Or at least, I wanted to.

There was just one problem: I needed that manlift my dad had mentioned over the summer. You know, the one he said “shouldn’t be a problem getting.”

Now, if you’ve never seen one up close, a manlift isn’t exactly a sleek, magical machine. It’s a giant, roaring, hydraulic beast, part dinosaur, part construction site. The kind of machine used to fix telephone poles or reach the roof of a warehouse. Not the kind of thing you casually park in a suburban front yard… unless you’re either a professional or completely out of your mind.

I am not a professional.

But I was something else entirely: obsessed.

Because in my mind, in the vision I couldn’t shake, this tree already glowed.
Not just with lights, but with childhood wonder.

My dad, of course, played it cool.

I brought it up again in early September, hopeful but pretending to be casual.

“If it’s not too big a deal… if you’ve got time,” I said, as if it were just a passing thought.
(It was a big deal.. I needed him to make the time!)

He let out a soft chuckle, the kind that said he knew exactly what I was doing.

“I think we could figure it out,” he said.

Which, in Dad-speak, roughly translates to: Maybe. Don’t hold your breath.

But I did hold my breath.

All through September. And into October.

And all the while, the tree just stood there. Quiet. Waiting.

By mid-October, with the leaves crunching under my feet and the sky starting to hint at winter, I asked again.

This time, he nodded. “That machine’s not being used. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

It sounded... promising. But he still didn’t say when. Or how. Or who would drive it. Or if it had even been started since the Bush administration.

So, I waited.

And while I waited… life went on.

Pumpkins on porches. Sweaters unpacked. School routines in full swing.

But no matter how loud the season got, the tree still called to me.

---

In early November, we took a short family vacation to New Hampshire. My wife and I packed up the kids and drove north for some cold air and early winter fun.

One of the places we visited on that trip was Santa’s Village in Jefferson, NH.

I didn’t expect much. A few reindeer, some twinkling lights, maybe a candy cane or two.

But what I found there hit me in a way I didn’t see coming.

It was the little things.

The handmade signs. The way every building looked like it had a story. The paint that was chipped in just the right places. The way the music didn’t feel piped in or artificial, it felt part of it. Like it lived there. The whole park had this feeling. A quiet, careful kind of wonder. Not loud. Not flashy. But true.

And as my kids ran ahead of me, laughing down a snow-dusted path towards the Sugar n’ Spice bake shop, built to resemble a life size gingerbread house, something stirred in my chest.

I wish everyone could feel the joy that was radiating off me in that moment.

Not just the people in the theme park. But everyone. Everywhere.

At home. On our street. In our neighborhood.

I wasn’t thinking about Santa suits or workshops yet. That part of the story still hadn’t even entered my mind. But I was paying attention.

Because while my kids were soaking up the joy of Santa’s Village…

I was unknowingly soaking up the blueprint for something I hadn’t fully named yet.

Wonder. Memory. Magic.

And that tree back home?

It was waiting.

---

We returned to New Jersey in mid-November. Still no manlift. Still no update from my dad. The lawn was damp with frost each morning. The air had shifted. That unmistakable smell of coming snow. I looked out the window at the tree and felt the ache of almost.

It felt like the idea had slipped through my fingers.

I told myself it was fine. That we’d do it next year. That it was too late now. That maybe it had been too ambitious, too impractical, too silly.

But the truth?

I was heartbroken.

And then, on the morning before Thanksgiving, my phone rang.

It was my dad.

“Hey,” he said casually. “The machine’s gonna be there today.”

There was a silence on my end. A kind of stunned pause. Like someone had just casually mentioned that Santa himself was dropping by for dinner.

“What? Really?”

“Yup. Should be delivered this afternoon.”

That was it.

No fanfare. No build-up.

Just a calm, offhand confirmation that the wild idea I had carried for a year was about to roll into my driveway.

From the moment I hung up with my dad to the moment that flatbed truck finally arrived, I was glued to the front window, like a kid on Christmas Eve.

Every time I heard a big truck coming, my heart fluttered - until finally... there it was.

I watched as one of my dad’s co-workers rolled the machine off the flatbed. The moment he parked it and pulled away, I sprinted outside.

It was enormous. Blue. Rusted. Loud even when it was turned off. It sat like a mechanical beast on the edge of the driveway, wrapped in chains and grease and possibility.

I took a breath. I stepped closer.

I froze. Then I smiled. Then I panicked a little.

I pulled out my phone and took a selfie.

A moment of joy, nerves, and the beginning of something bigger than I understood at the time.

You can see it in my eyes, that perfect blend of what am I doing? and I can’t believe this is real.

---

We had Thanksgiving at my dad’s house the following day.

The meal was great. The dessert was better. The smells of roasted turkey and cinnamon still hung in the air. The sound of football cut through the chaos. My kids were off playing with their cousins, their laughter echoing from outside. It was one of those full-hearted family days, the kind that should’ve had my full attention.

But my brain was stuck in the branches of that tree.

I talked about it all day.
Over football.
Through dinner.
Over dessert.
While packing up sweet potato pie for breakfast the next morning.

“I bought the biggest star they had. And I think 10 boxes of lights. We should be fine,” I said at one point, pouring more gravy over my stuffing.
“We should probably start from the top and spiral down.”
“Colored lights. White lights are for people who have lost the joy and magic of childhood. Colored lights always feel more magical.”

My wife gave me that look, the one that said, He’s in his own little world.
My sister encouraged me.
My dad just chuckled into his wine.

He shook his head a lot that day. Half amused. Half unsure what he’d gotten himself into.
But he was smiling.

And there was something in that smile, something unspoken.

A softness I hadn’t seen in a while. A glimmer that said: Okay. Let’s do it.

It hit me, quiet but clear: this hadn’t just been a favor.

He believed in it too.

He could see what this tree could become.

And for just a second, I didn’t see a man humoring his grown son.

I saw a little boy who still believed.

---

I was up before the sun the next morning. The grass crunched beneath my boots. The cold bit into my fingers the second I stepped outside.

And it wasn’t just cold.

It was brutal.

The kind of cold that makes every breath visible. That cuts through your coat and finds its way into your bones. The kind that whispers, You sure about this?

But still… I was buzzing.

My dad showed up before 9 a.m., bundled and ready. No blueprint. No detailed plan. Just ten boxes of lights, a few zip ties, some extension cords, and the machine.

The lift roared to life, a mechanical beast shaking off the frost. It jerked forward as we fumbled through the controls. I climbed into the basket and gripped the safety bar like a kid on a carnival ride. As the platform rose, branches brushed past my jacket. The house began to shrink beneath me.

We started from the top.

Draped the lights over the highest limbs we could reach. Let them dangle and fall like glowing vines. We lowered the basket back down. Moved the machine. Repeated the process. Again and again.

The lawn? Wrecked.

But I didn’t care.

I handed cords and strands of lights and extension poles to my dad, as he shouted directions through gritted teeth, or rather, through the Hav-A-Tampa cigar pinched between them. His words, barely audible over the wind and the low growl of the lift, somehow still got through.

We didn’t say much. But there was a rhythm. Like we had known how to do this our entire lives.

And somewhere between the tangled wires and frozen hands… something else took shape.

Between the cigar smoke, scraped knuckles and sap filled palms… something was being built that wasn’t just made of lights.

A tradition.

One tangled in wires and rooted in frostbitten hands.

One we didn’t even know we were building at the time.

But we’d return to it - year after year.

---

We didn’t finish that day.

Not even close.

Turns out, ten boxes of lights isn’t quite enough when you’re trying to dress a tree the size of a small office building.
So no, we were not “fine.”

As the sun dipped low, my dad and I stood back from the machine, surveying our progress.

He took the tiny nub of his cigar, pretty much just the wooden tip now, tossed it aside and nodded toward the extension cord.

“Let’s see what we’ve got.”

I bent down, extension cord in hand, but just as I was about to plug it in, I saw a car turning onto the street. Headlights cutting through the dusk.

I paused.

My dad looked at me, eyebrows raised. “What’s the matter?”

I held for a beat, watching the car crawl closer.

As soon as it passed I turned to him, smirked, and said, “No free shows.”

And he laughed, that deep, full-body kind of laugh that only comes when you’re cold, tired, and quietly proud of not just what you’ve built… but of the person you built it with.

Once the coast was clear, I plugged it in.

For a few brief seconds, the tree came alive, not all of it, but enough. Enough to catch our breath. Enough to believe.

We circled it quickly, pointing to gaps in the lights, making mental notes.
This branch. That side. Maybe another five boxes? No, better make it seven.

We didn’t linger. I bent back down and unplugged the cord.

No free shows.

As my dad got ready to leave, he hugged the kids and said goodnight to my wife, then he turned to me and said, “See you in the morning.”

That was it. No discussion. No plan.
I didn’t even have to ask.

As soon as he drove off, I grabbed my keys and headed to the store.

Ten more boxes of lights rode in the passenger seat beside me as I drove home. The streets passed by in a blur of holiday glow, and I thought about the day.

The cold. The mess. The laughter.

The rhythm of working with my dad, no need for many words. Just the hum of the lift, the stretch of cords, the way our movements synced without even trying.

It already felt like a memory.

One of those quiet, sturdy ones you carry in your chest for years, not because something big happened, but because something true did.

The kind of memory that you can’t fully grasp how much it means until the lights are off, the street is quiet, and your hands still smell like sap.

But even then, even now, I can feel it.

Like wonder itself.

The kind of moment you don’t realize is everything… until it is.