TIME FLIES, things happen, people change. We accumulate baggage. We jettison baggage and gather up more. We pick up scars and regrets. Scars heal and disappear; regrets might vanish but they also might live inside like an ulcer. Some of us roll on faster than others -- free and happy, focused on good memories. Some of us have to chop through the jungle of the conscience before getting to life's slightly better place.
It's different for everyone, and sometimes out of the night someone somewhere gets the idea to settle old business. Who can say when such a thing might happen? There's no public record of it anywhere.
A man might be driving his car on a December night, with Christmas approaching.
He might be headed north on Charles Street, up past Northern Parkway and just across the city line.
The passing scenery might remind him of something, ignite a little throb in an old wound.
He might be listening to a Christmas song on the radio.
He might be thinking about his life.
He might be worried or afraid.
He might have just picked up a prescription for the drug that will kill pain in his body.
Or there might be a Bible on the front seat.
Or a letter from an old friend.
God only knows what might motivate him to make the right onto Stevenson Lane.
And then to drive past the lot where Jeff Nicoll has sold Christmas trees every December since 1968 -- across the street from Woodbrook Baptist Church.
Nicoll is one of Baltimore's longtime Christmas tree purveyors. He started when he was a teen-ager -- 44 years ago. He was one of several young men who sold trees at Northern Parkway and York Road. Then he bought his own tree farm in Mineral County, W.Va., and set up his tent on Stevenson Lane, between Charles and Bellona. In time, Nicoll's became known as "the Gucci Christmas tree lot" because his smartly trimmed Douglas firs got to be quite pricey in the 1980s and they've pretty much stayed that way.
If you're looking to buy a tree -- or make a confession -- you'll find Nicoll on his lot in overalls and a heavy brown barn jacket, silver-haired and sun-tanned from a life spent outdoors with a landscaping business and a Christmas tree farm.
Now we can't say what final thought or event might have prompted the stranger to approach Jeff Nicoll because he did not provide any details. He just stepped up to the Christmas tree man and handed him a $100 bill.
The man did not appear to be buying a tree, so Nicoll was confused.
"What's this for?" he asked the man, who appeared to be in his early 40s, casually dressed, troubled in the eyes.
"Fifteen years ago I stole one of your trees off this lot," the man said. "It had a tag on it for $75, so here's the $75 with interest."
Nicoll had never heard such a thing. Over the years he'd lost trees to theft -- he keeps a guard on the lot overnight now to prevent it -- but he never had anyone come by and offer restitution. If a tree had been stolen 15 years ago, as the stranger said, certainly Nicoll had forgotten it by now. He has grown and has sold thousands. What's one tree?
Nicoll put up his hand. "You keep it," he told the stranger. "Or give it to a church."
"No," the man said, and Nicoll could see the first trace of tears in the man's eye. "I need you to take it."
"Your honesty is enough for me," Nicoll said.
But again the stranger insisted the Christmas tree man take his money.
"How about you just give me $50?" Nicoll said.
"I will never feel right until I've paid it in full," the man said.
And then Jeff Nicoll realized how important this was to the man, and that his paying for the long-gone tree might help him find peace. Nicoll didn't need the whole back story to appreciate the moment. Everyone takes a different road to life's slightly better place.
So Nicoll took the bill and told the man he admired what he had done. The stranger got back in his modest car and drove away.