Last week’s snow storm was a pain in the prat. But along with sloppy roads, power outages, and slipped discs, it did one thing wonderfully — it blanketed enough snow to give the area a lovely White Christmas look.

But is that look, to quote the song, “… just like the ones we used to have”?

Good question.

I’ve been around long enough to know that my memories, while often crystal-clear, can also be completely wrong. But since they’re the only ones I have, I’ll share ’em with you and you can do with ’em what you please.

The French Poet Francois Villon’s best known line (in fact, to almost everyone it’s his only known line) is “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”

Because he was a poet, he used snow as a metaphor. For what, I don’t know, since I only remember the line, not what followed, but it could’ve been anything, I reckon — crepes, berets, wine, public beheadings …

Since I’m not a poet, when I think of yesteryear’s snows, I think of the literal ones. And compared to those snows, our current ones are shadows of their former selves. Ditto for the temps. And the weather records will bear me out on that.

So it was a lot colder and snowier in the old Christmases. But does that mean they were more scenic, more aesthetic, more … Christmasy? Of course that’s an opinion, and like most of them, not worth a good gosh golly darn. But there was one thing in our old winters that put a unique stamp on My Home Town that’s not a matter of opinion, but a you-can-take-it-to-the-bank fact. It was our Berkeley Square Christmas tree.

I don’t know its tenure in the square, but it was there from my earliest childhood till much of my adulthood. Then it was gone for a few years, came back for a brief revival, and has since vanished into the Mists of History.

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Lovers, haters …

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When I say The Berkeley Square Christmas Tree, I mean it literally: The tree was not only in the square, but physically and psychically, it was the square, since its presence overshadowed everything around it.

While some of the trees were bigger than others, all of them were huge. As I recall, they were installed by a crew from the Paul Smith’s Electric Company (we weren’t on the NiMo grid then), since they knew how to wrassle huge timbers upright, and more importantly, to make sure they stayed that way.

Next, it had its lowest branches trimmed, though there was no telling how much they were trimmed. Some years the branches were a sensible length, others they weren’t so sensible at all. “Sensible,” in this case, means a car could get around the tree and all the way through the square unscathed by limbs, cones or pitch.

As I said, there was no standard pruning protocol. Some years I drove through the square with my car untouched. Other years, the branches smacked the bejammers out of my car, even though my outside wheels were almost clinging to the curb.

The final touch was the lights, which at night made the tree a sight of overwhelming beauty — at least to me.

I think it’s only natural that if we like something, we assume everyone else does too. For instance, I love Frank’s hot sauce and pour it on or in darn near everything except my corn flakes. When I run into someone who doesn’t like it, my first reaction is to wonder what’s wrong with them. Are they sick, weird, or of delicate disposition? Are they dullards? Are they un-American? Eventually I’ll accept they just don’t share my tastes — though I’ll still think their lives are spiritually impoverished.

And so it was with the Berkeley Square tree: I figured everyone loved it as much as me. But I figured wrong.

The most strident critic of the tree was a guy who picked me up hitch-hiking from Syracuse. When I got in his car he asked me where I was going and I told him home to Saranac Lake.

“Saranac Lake!” he all but shouted. “I hate that friggin town!”

I was completely taken aback, but when I got over the shock I asked him why.

“That tree,” he said.

“What tree?” I asked.

“The one you got smack dab in the middle of town, that’s what tree,” he said.

He then explained he drove a semi, and going through town when the tree was there was the stuff of nightmares. And this was especially so, since his only option was to drive up Church Street extension and take a chance of the light turning red and trapping him on that hill.

While I understood his reasoning and sympathized with is plight (at least a bit), I still stuck to my belief that the tree was something for the greater good of humankind. So if some poor souls suffered in the process, tough nuggies.

The second person who adamantly disliked the tree was none other than Jen-Ex. When she first saw the tree, she said (and this is a direct quote): “What in the hillbilly hell is that monster of a tree doing in the middle of an intersection?” That ended the discussion, nor was it ever mentioned again, since I figured that was the best way to maintain the domestic tranquility.

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… and in-betweeners

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So while there were Berkeley Square X-mas Tree lovers and haters, there was a third group as well — thems what were ambivalent about it. My mother fell into that category.

My mother was a New Yorker, born and bred, who moved here when she was almost forty. And while she loved the town, she never quite adjusted to many of its ways. For example, she was extremely formal. She referred only to her friends by first name; everyone else was Miss, Missus, Mister, or Doctor. Period. It’s why as a kid, I had no idea of almost anyone in town’s first name. And truth be told, even as an adult I never knew them.

She also dressed full city. At home she always wore what was called “house dresses,” often with an apron. She never got her first pair of slacks till she was 70, and when she did she was amazed at how warm they were in the winter — as if I’d never told her that over the previous three decades.

The Berkeley Square tree offered another internal conflict: On the one hand, she thought it was beautiful and something that made us unique; on the other hand, she thought it was the Great Destroyer of Car Finishes.

My mother looked at cars as transportation, and nothing more. She didn’t care about their looks, status, trim, or anything else. When she got a car, she always got what she called “the stripped down” model. Her ’54 Chevy 150 was a two door which so basic it didn’t even have a radio.

But while she didn’t care about car luxury, she was ultra-fussy about how well they were maintained. As a result, she kept them in excellent shape, and this included their finish: She avoided dents, dings and scratches like the plague.

One fine winter day I was riding with her up Berkeley hill, when we came to the tree, something we’d done dozens of times, of course. But as it turned out, this time would be like none of the others. It was the combination of tree limb length and snowbanks. The limbs were super long, and the snowbanks weren’t cut back. As a result, when we zipped by the tree, the tree zapped us — but good.

“I thought we were about to lose the windshield wiper,” my mother said.

I just shrugged, thinking silence was golden — especially then.

The next day, she and I were going somewhere and when she got to the car she saw there were bunch of good-sized scratches on the front fender.

“Come here,” she said to me. “Look at this.”

She pointed out the scratches, and once again, I assumed my strong, silent persona.

“It must have been the tree,” she said.

I nodded, waiting for her follow-up.

Thing is, I knew she wasn’t happy with the scratches, but she wasn’t really mad, either. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been so matter-of-fact about it, and sure wouldn’t have said “the tree.” Instead, she would’ve spit out “that damned tree!”

Instead, she looked at the fender a bit more, frowned, shook her head, and said, “Hmm.” Then she got in the car, fired it up, drove out, and said no more about it.

Her reaction was far more subdued than I’d imagined, and at first it confused me. But I later figured it out. I’d seen her react like that before — dealing with some mischief committed by a little rascal liked.

Which, as I think about it, might be the perfect description of the tree — except it was a big rascal, not a little one.