The Perfect Tree

A few days after entering nurses' training in 1966, I met a girl named Jean Elizabeth Cornick. We assessed each other, deemed each other worthy of attention, and a lifelong friendship began. We never looked back as we learned, worked, played, pulled practical jokes, backed each other up at all costs, and generally tolerated residence life like chained cats.

With Jean as a best buddy, her family came into my life as well, and my family into hers. Jean's parents were Madge and Wilson Cornick, but Wilson was known to all as Bill. When I found out his initials were WB, for Wilson Bramwell, I dubbed him WB. That nickname stuck, and I called him that from then on. He got quite a charge out of the quirky little nickname.

WB was married to a charming British nurse he had met while overseas during WWII. Madge had a lovely lilting British accent and a great laugh, and was very kind. She could cook like the best chef, and baked great bread and rolls. She would feed us the hot rolls with the melted butter dripping over the napkins, and sit back with her corgi, ready to listen to all our terrible woes and problems. It became a ceremony of sorts over the three years of nurses' training.

Meanwhile, WB practiced gruffness, but in spite of his big size, he generally failed at gruffness and fell victim to laughter instead. He always tolerated us all with great patience and kindness.

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One characteristic of friendship is the sharing of family stories, anecdotes, milestones, laughs, tears, and all that make up a life. Such was, and is, the way it went for Jean and me. So it was inevitable that sooner or later I would hear her Christmas Tree Story. And I did, one day when we were particularly bored.

"Ever tell you about Mom's perfect Christmas tree?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

When WB returned from overseas with his young bride and baby son, it was apparent that, like most of the fathers who had served overseas during wartime, he was filled with angst, bewilderment, and shock by all they had seen and endured. He, like all the others, wanted peace and a better world for his children. WB was the stereotypical post-war man. He was forever planning, and combining his wild sense of humor and his quick wit to execute those plans.

One Christmas, Madge stated that she wanted the "perfect tree" – nothing else would do. So she sent WB off to fetch this tree. In an hour or so he returned, but the tree was rejected by Madge. So off went WB, with the tree dragging out of the back of the vehicle, promising to do better.

A few hours passed, and WB arrived back. He had the right tree this time, he announced, but Madge thought it too sparse. He stuck it back in the vehicle, and set off once again. Twice more this happened. Madge saw it was getting late, but soon WB was back. He jumped out of the car in a flourish and announced that he had finally found the tree she wanted. He took it out, and stood it up. Madge did her walk-around inspection and proclaimed the tree to be "perfect." She also muttered something about the ridiculousness of taking all day to find a tree.

So what of it you ask? What she did not know, until many years later, was that it was the very same tree each time! Every time she sent him for another tree, WB drove down to the pub, had an ale with his friends and returned home. The answer as to why he was so congenial throughout all of this was that he had much festive "spirit" that day!

Thank you for all the special moments, the great laughs and marvelous memories. May you now always have the "Perfect Tree."

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