O Christmas tree
I have many pleasant memories of the family Christmas tree.
Thinking back on it now, my Christmas tree experience seems more like something Norman Rockwell would paint. I grew up in the 50s and have since seen many Rockwell paintings, so perhaps my memories are somewhat tainted by that. But on the other hand, I really do have vivid memories of my childhood. I think Norman Rockwell most likely painted things which reflected my life.
Besides my Mom & Dad, there were five children in my childhood home. I had two older sisters, one older brother and one younger sister. We all took part in decorating the Christmas tree, one way or another. It was a special time for me. I knew it meant Santa Claus was on his way, but it also meant a trip to the woods with dad.
I was probably five through ten years of age when we would go Christmas tree shopping. That was a very exclusive experience. Only the men of the house could participate. I felt proud to be included in a man adventure.
About 2 weeks before Christmas, dad would take me and my brother out to the country to pick out our tree. I remember walking with him through the forest. Finding our tree wasn’t an easy thing to do because the room in which the tree was going had a tall ceiling, probably twelve to fifteen feet in height. At five years of age it seemed a hundred feet tall.
The tree we brought home had to be just right, of course. If it was too small, the living room would look funny with a little tree. It had to be a large, full tree. But, at that age, obviously, I had no concept of largeness. Even the little trees were big to me.
To check the largeness of a tree, I would extend my hand as far as I could above my head and look up. If I couldn’t touch the tip of the tree, I thought it was big enough, and if I thought it didn’t look puny, I would tell my dad to “Take that one! Take that one!” Dad would usually tell me the one I picked was not the perfect tree we were looking for. He would then reassure me that the perfect tree was still in there. We just had to keep looking.
The weather was always cold and the snow deep. Back in the 50s, that seemed to be more of the norm. Of course, I was a child. I am much older now, so perhaps my memory of that time is a bit gray. Us, older folks tend to remember Southern Illinois winters that way.
Anyway, regardless of the weather, dad would never cut down the first tree I selected. We would trudge on until we, he, found the “perfect” tree. Once identified, it was then and only then, that dad would take his saw, not an ax, and start cutting down the gigantic tree.
The first year of the adventure I asked him why he didn’t cut it down with the ax I knew he had in the garage. He told me that the “saw cut” made the bottom fit better in the tree stand. I’m a dad now, so I know what he really meant; I wasn’t much more than a baby and couldn’t be trusted to be anywhere near that ax.
He used a two man saw, which of course I wanted to be on the other end of. Any young boy would consider that a fun adventure, at least until the fun wore off. Dad would let me try, anyway. He knew it wouldn’t take long before I would discover that I couldn’t do it and lose interest.
My bigger brother, who was much older, was able to handle the other end of the saw. He would patiently wait until I was satisfied that I couldn’t do it and plead for him to take over. He knew, I’m sure, that there would be less of an opportunity for a whine session from me if he waited until I determined the work was too hard.
Once the cutting began, I tried to aid them by holding the tree up while they cut. I couldn’t understand why they kept telling to me to stand back when I was trying to be helpful. I guess I was afraid of our Christmas tree falling on them and thought myself strong enough to hang on to it while they got out of the way.
I can still remember thinking “This must be what it’s like to be a lumberjack.” I would shout “Timmm—berrr!” as the tree fell to the ground. I was Paul Bunyon, and I knew that was what he yelled.
After the tree was down, we would drag it out to the trailer, tie it down, & head back home. How we got that giant of a tree through the house door I don’t remember, but it always came through.
I was probably more of a hindrance than a help. But, Dad and my brother made me feel like I was an important part of the adventure.
Once the tree was in the house, it had to be uprighted. I can’t remember how he did it, but he somehow got the tree to stand up and then we could start the decorating process. That required the use of a tall ladder
My mom, dad, brother and three sisters got involved with the decorations. It must have been mass congestion in that room with all those people, boxes of decorations, and that massive tree.
Mom took over here. She assigned each of us a special job. Mine was the tinsel. Years later, though, Mom reminded me that the some of the tinsel got clumped up on the limbs and she waited until I went to sleep to straighten them out. Mom suspected a loss of interest on my part. I am sure she was right. Pretending to be Paul Bunyon was definitely more fun than working with the tinsel.
What I liked best, though, about our tree were the bubble lights. There were several strands of them. I know we had twinkle lights, but watching the bubbles was special to me.
I remember staying behind in the room after everyone else left. I would watch the bubbles travel up and down the tube and try to figure out how those bubbles did that.
Dad had one more job to perform on that day.
Mom reached into her special box and carefully unwrapped her favorite ornament. It was a lighted Angel passed down to her from her family. Dad climbed the ladder one last time, gathered up a few of the uppermost limbs, and gently stuffed them into the hole in her bottom. Mom was watching, so dad had to be careful. When I looked at the Angel, I knew she was looking to the heavens and perhaps was even guiding Santa Claus to my house.
Everyone pitched in and the tree was eventually deemed ready to celebrate the Christmas holiday. Even at that young age, I was in awe or our tree. Our ceiling was not one hundred feet tall as I believed it was. But that tree, when fully decorated, touched the ceiling. It soared and twinkled well above my small stature.
Christmas Eve night was special. On that night each member of the family would pick out one gift from under the Christmas tree and open it. This routine was particularly tough on the youngest of the brood, because the oldest (Dad) opened first while the rest of us waited. And no other gifts were opened until all had the opportunity to experience that gift. There were seven gifts to be opened that night. Mine was number six. Mom and Dad always opened theirs with no ceremony. As I remember, my two older sisters followed in the same manner. Not my older brother. The presentation ceremony was just as important to him as what he unwrapped. That, of course, added to the anxiousness for me and my younger sister.
After the gift unwrapping was over Mom and Dad would head off to bed. The rest of the family would stay up late into the night watching that tree twinkle. The oldest siblings would share readings of Christmas stories. Eventually someone would read “T’was the Night Before Christmas!” and some of us would even try to stay up long enough to see that jolly old man in the red suit. To make that wait easier, Mom had baked a batch of Oatmeal cookies (my favorite). The plan was to share them and a glass of milk with Santa. All the older siblings, who stayed up, took special delight in convincing the two youngest that we would meet the man in the red suit in person.
My younger sister and I would have to try to convince the older siblings that we were more nice than naughty. Honestly, though, I think mom and dad put them up to that particular interrogation.
Even though I waited up to see Santa, I was still fascinated by those bubble lights. Water, as far as I knew, only bubbled when it boiled. I knew the water inside the bulb was not hot enough to boil water. It took time to heat water to that temperature. But those things bubbled as soon as the tree was switched on. Perhaps I thought I could ask Santa Claus when I saw him.
Presents from Santa Claus were never under the tree on Christmas Eve night. He was supposed to bring them sometime during the night after everyone was asleep. That’s what we were told, which may explain why we never saw him. We had to be asleep. As long as we stayed up he wasn’t going to come.
I remember the year I believed it was uncool to believe in Santa Claus. I don’t think I told Mom and Dad that I no longer believed, but I must have thrown out plenty of hints. The problem was Mom and Dad were not ready for me to give up on believing in Santa’s existence.
An exception to our Christmas Eve tradition happened the year I gave up on Santa. There was one present under the tree from Santa and it had my name on it. When my turn came to open my present, I was directed to the one from Santa Claus.
Mom said “Santa brought this especially for you to open tonight. He heard that you no longer believe in him. He told me it would be a box of air unless you believed in Santa Klaus.”
Mom then asked me, “Do you believe in Santa Klaus?”
I was probably eight or nine at the time. I was sure there would be more presents from Santa under the tree on Christmas Day. You better believe I told Mom that I still believed. But sometimes I still wonder how those Christmas day gifts from Santa with my name on them would have been explained away.
I never did see Santa Claus. I would be hard pressed to say which Christmas tree adventure I miss the most. Cutting the tree down and decorating it or staying up late with my siblings telling Christmas stories.
The last few years we lived in that house a new phenomenon took over. It was the artificial tree. The trips to the Christmas tree forest with my dad were over.
