Tree vendor special part of holiday ritual

It was a lovely tree as always, lush with dozens of memory-laden ornaments and shimmering in its elegant helix of soft white light.

As I sat admiring this season’s beauty, I felt myself slipping into that sentimental reverie that staring at a Christmas tree alone in a quiet room can bring on so easily. And it occurred to me that every cherished tradition in life is made of many parts, all lovingly cobbled together into the whole, and that our Christmas-tree man somehow had become an essential figure in our family’s holiday memories over the years.

It was only natural, I suppose, considering that we have been buying our trees from this pleasant and generous man for about 15 years now. We first visited Dick Hamel’s lot when our kids were very young, and we have sought him out faithfully wherever he has set up shop for the season. We wouldn’t think of going to anyone else, for that matter – who else takes money from a parent and then secretly slips a portion of it into the hand of an unsuspecting daughter?

And so he has become as familiar as Santa Claus to our two kids, who have never known any other Christmas-tree man. Hamel has watched them grow taller each year, always patiently walking behind them as they moved from tree to tree, smiling as he listened to their long debates over which was too small, too skinny, too fat, just right.

Eventually, our yearly visits to his tree lot came to represent a kind of festive continuity that marked the passing of the seasons as surely as a birthday party or a first day of school.

I wondered if the Christmas-tree man had any idea of this important seasonal role he played in our lives.

If he didn’t, I wanted to let him know.

I stopped by his lot in Hampden recently and, for the first time in our long association, chatted with him about something other than a simple quest for the perfect tree. Hamel was glad to hear that he had become a Christmas tradition in our family; many other families have told him the same thing. But he wanted me and his other loyal customers to know as well that the feeling was mutual. Greeting the familiar faces at his lot year after year is his favorite part of the holidays.

“I just love seeing the people, especially the kids,” said Hamel, who is a 55-year-old grandfather of five. “I’ve watched kids grow up over the years who then bring their own kids here for their first Christmas tree. I enjoy being part of that tradition for people. It makes me feel good. It’s why I’ve done this so long.”

Hamel, who grew up in a family of eight kids in Newburgh, started in the fir trade as a boy by knocking on doors and selling the wreaths his mother made every year. After high school, he worked in a shoe factory for a while, drove school buses for 17 years, moved into car sales, and 10 years ago began selling recreational vehicles.

Yet every December, he has taken a leave from his 9-to-5 jobs to cut and sell Christmas trees. And while he has always operated on a business philosophy that has endeared him to many, it is not likely to make him a millionaire any time soon.

“I believe that everybody should have a nice tree for Christmas,” he said. “And if a family can’t afford a tree, I’m going to make sure they go home with one anyway.”

The other day, for instance, a needy woman and her teen-age son stopped at Hamel’s lot to windowshop for a while. When Hamel overheard the boy talking admiringly to his mother about a certain tree, he approached the couple and asked, “You like that tree?”

The boy sheepishly said he did, but that they really couldn’t afford it on the mother’s fixed income. Hamel told them to take the tree home with his blessings for a joyful Christmas.

“Oh, it was great,” Hamel said. “It made them happy, you know, and we all stood there and hugged.”

And when an elderly man tried to pay for a tree with what appeared to be the last five-dollar bill to his name, Hamel told him it was on the house.

“There were hugs and tears,” he said with a laugh. “It’s the best feeling in the world. Sometimes I give a little money back to the kids – and always lollipops – and thank them for bringing their parents to me every year. The kids get a kick out of that.”

Hamel said he has thought at times about getting out of the Christmas-tree business, and sparing himself all those long, cold hours required to cut and haul more than 1,000 trees from up north. But then he remembers all he’d have to give up – the familiar faces, the smiles of the children – and the idea of retirement becomes less appealing.

“I guess it’s just in my blood,” he said. “I’d really miss all the people, and I like to think they’d miss me too.”