I believe I was in the third grade when I was looking out the back window of my parents’ Honda Civic only to see our newly bought Christmas tree slide off the roof and tumble behind us across the highway. 
    
“The tree!” I screamed, followed closely by my mother who just screamed, perhaps not even fully realizing what exactly I was screaming about. 
    
Meanwhile the tree spit off pine needles as it rolled down the road.

“Maybe it’s still okay,” I thought to myself, shortly before it was run over by an eighteen wheeler. 

Stunned, my eyes began to water. It was the only tree in the lot that didn’t have a massive bald spot on its side. That wasn’t so much the case anymore. 

Its perfectly straight trunk was now separated into five or six smaller splintered trunks, and each of those wasn’t in such great shape either.

I slunk down in my seat. My family of six was often crowded into the car, so I sat in what we called the “pod” and what everyone else from normal families usually calls the hatchback trunk. My father turned the car around. All the while he was reminded by my mother that we probably should have tied it down a bit tighter, or given up some change to tip the guys to tie it for us. 
    
In retrospect, I realize this is all just part of the challenge of the holidays, for which all men must give their own account. In olden days, they had to trek out into the mountains and chop themselves a tree with nothing but their bare hands. The times may have changed, but the inconveniences of tree transportation will always be the same.
    
I’m not sure what I would’ve done if I were in my father’s shoes in such a situation. Would I have gone back to pick up the shredded pieces of our Christmas decor from the side of the highway? Perhaps, if only to take it back to Home Depot in a desperate and sad attempt to make an exchange. 
    
Somehow we ended up getting a second tree, and this time we double-knotted it. My brother Nick would remember this lesson well when later in high school he found himself a tree salesman.
    
“Remember Nick,” my father told him. “Don’t ever tie the strings through the windows of the car.” Laying his hand on his shoulder, my father continued to wisely note, “If you do, the people won’t ever be able to get out.”
    
Nick’s eyes widened, and he nodded with the secret of the trade. My father nodded as well, and today I fear it may have been out of personal experience.
    
Even if the tree makes it home in one piece, there’s always the chance it won’t make it much longer after that. My father has since gotten into the tradition of tying the tree to nails in the wall, after one year of glancing through the living room window to see our cat Stimpy clutching the tree where the angel should go, violently wagging the trunk back and forth.

My oldest brother Ben takes a different approach. His yearly tradition is to toss the tree onto the top of his car, hop into the drivers seat, and then with one arm outstretched through the window he simply clutches the trunk of the tree with one fist as he drives. No strings attached. This has been his solution to just about anything the man has ever been forced to place on his car roof, including furniture and mattresses.

I envy that confidence. I myself only bought a Christmas tree once before, and from past experiences, I was so nervous that I briefly considered placing it into the car, buckling it in, and driving it home in the front seat. Now I’ll be spending Christmas somewhere else, and maybe this year it’ll be a different story.