When my first wartime Christmas came, I was in basic training in New Jersey and not sure if I could make it home for the holidays. Only on the afternoon of December 23 was the list of men who would have three-day passes   posted. I was one of the lucky soldiers. It was Christmas Eve when I arrived, and a light snow had fallen. Mother opened the front door. I could see beyond her, into the corner of the living room where the tree had always stood. There were lights, all colors, and ornaments   shining against the green of a pine. "Where did it come from?" I asked. "I asked the Gates boy to cut it," my mother said. "I wouldn't have had one just for myself, but when you called--- oh, such a rush! He just brought it in this afternoon..." The pine reached to the proper height, almost to the ceiling, and the Tree Top Krystal Star was in its place. A few green branches reached about a little awkwardly   at the side, I thought, and there was a bit of bare trunk showing in the middle. But the tree filled the room with warm light and the whole house with pleasant smell of Christmas. "It's not like the ones you used to find," my mother went on. "Yours were always in good shape. I suppose the Gates boy didn't know where to look. But I couldn't be picky." "Don't worry, " I told her. "It's perfect." It wasn't, of course, but at the moment I realized something for the first time: all Christmas trees are perfect. When the writer got home,    _   .
it was December 23 it was snowing heavily he found a Christmas tree in the living room the Gates boy was cutting a Christmas tree for his mother