LOCAL VIEW: KRISTEN'S TREE : DAUGHTER'S TRAGIC DEATH REKINDLES MEMORIES OF THE YEARLY HUNT FOR YULETIDE SYMBOL, REMINDING ``US OF ALL THE JOY OF THOSE PAST HOLIDAYS.''.

Byline: RICHARD NEMEC

WHETHER in history or in our own personal lives, it is the little, mundane things that often prove to be the most satisfying, if not significant.

I am reminded of that subtle fact this holiday season by the seemingly routine task of picking out a Christmas tree. For me, the pleasure of this annual holiday chore has spanned almost three decades, the period over which I have been a father.

As a child, I don't recall being included by my parents in the selection and purchase of a tree at Christmas time, and by the time I was a teen-ager, my parents had succumbed to the craze of the late 1950s by switching to an artificial silver tree, for which my industrious father fabricated his own electric-motor-driven turn stand complete with red and blue color lights shining upward from the base of the tree.

As a college student and young adult in the midst of the Vietnam War, I didn't give Christmas trees much thought.

It was after I was married and a father for the first time that I began to see this as not a chore, but a sacred rite of properly noting the end of a calendar year and the celebration of the ``season,'' which admittedly had more to do with gifts and merriment than religious reasons.

Two past tree-buying remembrances are particularly vivid. One happened more than a quarter of a century ago on the day my daughter, Kristen, was born - Dec. 17, 1971, on a particularly cold day in Chicago. The second one came a decade later in early December, 1981, when Kristen and her brother, Mark, and I chopped down our own tree in Northern California.

Back on that glorious day of Kristen's birth, I had visited my wife and newly acquired daughter in the hospital in the early evening, a Friday, before picking up Mark at his grandparents, my wife's parents. At 2-1/2 years old, Mark was dressed for the bitter cold with a thick parka, fleece-lined hood, mittens and a scarf to buffer his round, pinkish cheeks. His tiny body was so thoroughly wrapped by his grandmother that about all I could see staring back at me when I picked him up were two greenish-blue eyes and a little red nose.

In the process of getting ready for my daughter's arrival we had not bought a Christmas tree yet, so this was a perfect opportunity for Mark and I to get the job done on our way back to our two-bedroom apartment in the suburb of Evanston, just north of Chicago.

A tree lot was a few blocks from our place, along Howard Street, which serves as the northern boundary of Chicago. It was a busy, noisy thoroughfare. Mark and I walked among the bright green trees that glistened under the lights and crisp early evening air. It was about 7 p.m. and very dark, but with the help of lights, Mark scampered among the trees like it was just another day in the park.

My young son and I eventually struggled with our tree, dragging it to the car. I pulled it along with one arm and clung tightly to my son's hand with my free hand. Many cars sped along Howard as we walked. I don't think I ever felt younger, safer or more filled with the holiday spirit than when I watched the enthusiasm and wonder of my son and thought of the future of my daughter.

Shortly before Kristen turned 10 years old, and 2,000 miles west of Chicago, I recall a similar sense of wonderment and joy when Mark, then age 12, his sister and I drove our aging mid-size station wagon to a nearby tree lot a few miles from where we were then living in a tree-shrouded, woodsy part of the East Bay suburbs around Berkeley and Oakland.

The air was chilled, although not by Chicago standards. The trees were a lush green. And the aromas of the holidays seemed to waft through our nostrils. We selected our tree after much debate and consideration. We sawed and chopped and eventually, with the help from the tree lot workers, secured a large, 10- or 11-foot tree on top of our car.

This was probably the biggest, most beautiful tree we had ever brought home, mostly attributable to the fact that we were temporarily living in a leased home with high, open-beam ceilings.

When we got it home and finally set it up in the family room, not too far from an enormous fireplace, it seemed as near perfect as a symbol of the holidays could be.

It is memories like these that are sustaining me this holiday, 1997. They also have convinced me to continue a family tradition and buy a tree this year, even though I cannot summon much joyful spirit.

A deep personal tragedy earlier in the year has made me want to avoid giving much attention to Christmas or the New Year's holiday this year. But I have relented and the act of looking for what this year is two Christmas trees proved very uplifting indeed.

This year I did not take the usual time and care to travel around to various lots within about a two-mile radius of our home. And I purchased two rather small trees, the decorations for which I am unsure about.

But those trees represent an attempt to remember the joy of Christmases past. An attempt to hope that some of that joy might return in future holidays.

I bought the trees myself. Alone. I had the larger one secured atop an old Mustang I have kept for too many extra years as a ``third'' car. The largest of the two small trees went in our usual spot in the back of our family room where we remove a table each year to make room for what traditionally is a much larger tree. This year, this smaller version will do fine, standing next to the table.

The second, tiny tree I have taken to Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City. It will be part of the decorations of my daughter Kristen's grave. She was killed by a hit-and-run driver while walking in Manhattan earlier this year.

Her tree now reminds us of all the joy of those past holidays, and all the pleasure our 25-year-old daughter had provided. It soothes the continuing grief.

She always loved Christmas trees. And in past years, we always waited until Kristen came home from college or elsewhere to decorate it. She is home with us in spirit already this year, but I'm not sure the tree will need any ornaments. It looks warm and familiar inside our home just like it is.

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PHOTO The trees were lush and green with holiday aromas wafting ``through our nostrils.''