Monday, December 05, 2005
Trudging Through the Snow...My Christmas Card To You
There was a time in my life that a fake Christmas tree was utterly unheard of, and a real tree that was purchased in front of the grocery store was simply blasphemous. Growing up in the country was one o
f the most beautiful parts of my life, and at Christmas time there is nothing that I've experienced since that exceeds in any way the journey for our Christmas tree when I was a child.
Dad would always wait until there had been fresh snow, light, not too dangerous on the roads. We had an old 1956 GMC pickup truck (in mint condition, I might add), named "NellyBelle" that we all piled into. For many years the front seat was "loaded" with Dad, Mom (not a light person), my brother, myself and the family Dachsund, "Snoopy". We would stuff our "tiny" family into this pickup and head upwards toward Spruce Canyon, an old army/AirForce radar base on the mountain. The most lovely trees were up there. Dad would find an old logging trail or some such not-to-well beaten path, and follow it until he was sure that we wouldn't be caught. (We never did purchase a permit to get our tree, but we never did get caught, either.) When Mom squealed that this looked like the place, Dad would pull over and park. We'd all pile out of the cab, and in a mess of boots, parkas, mittens, scarves, stocking caps and underlying long johns, we'd all start trudging out toward the woods in search of the perfect tree. Snoopy, being bigger around than she was tall, would hop through the snow like a jack rabbit, almost getting lost with every step. Inevitably my brother would throw snowballs at Dad and I, never at Mom, until she was far enough past him to "bean" her in the butt. One Winter, we had parked the pickup near a very high bank that we had to climb, and we had a hilarious time trying to get Mom up the bank. Whenever she'd get close to the top, she'd lose her footing and slide back down again. I'm almost convinced she was enjoying the sliding more than the climbing. After a search, and a lot of playing in the snow, (we often stopped to make a snowman in the middle of the woods, my brother and I), we would see the tree that would make our Christmas the brightest, merriest Christmas ever. Dad produced the folding saw that he always carried on such occasions, and sawed the trunk at just the right spot. After it fell, Dad would grab the trunk end, and my brother would grab the top. I always wanted to "help", so I grabbed the tip of a limb on the side of the tree as the two of them carried it back to the pickup. Dad would strap it down into the truck bed as we all stamped our feet and crammed ourselves back into the cab.
At home, the tree, having been shaken of it's remaining snowflakes, would stand in the garage until the next day, (which was always a grueling wait for me), at which time Mom would initiate the decorating and trimming. Boxes and boxes of decorations for both the tree and the house were brought out of garage storage and placed in the living room. It looked like moving day. Mom would place the "pretties" around the hearth, the table, the walls, the doo
rs, anyplace there was an empty space for Christmas, and my brother and I would each separately place decorations on the tree that had been collected or made by us personally. When we'd exhausted our personal baubles, we would share the ones that Mom, herself, had collected; the glass snowmen imported from Italy, the glass raspberries and robins that had been her mother's, the purple egg carton ball that Aunt Jackie had made for Mom when they were little themselves, among many other precious treasures. Sometimes we would string popcorn. Other years we would throw the strings of tinsel icicles on each of the branches as my father looked on in dismay at what would have to be vacuumed later.
I don't have this opportunity anymore, to go out and "find" the perfect tree. But the spirit of those journeys was very strongly with me as I decorated my Walmart "find" this year. It is only a three foot plastic job that sits on my end table beside my sofa, but it shines just as brightly as those of my past.
Everyone has a different story connected to their Christmas tree, which makes the tree unique to all of us. May that story burn brightly in your memories as you decorate and view your tree this year. It just wouldn't be Christmas without it. May the peace of God be with all of you.
f the most beautiful parts of my life, and at Christmas time there is nothing that I've experienced since that exceeds in any way the journey for our Christmas tree when I was a child. Dad would always wait until there had been fresh snow, light, not too dangerous on the roads. We had an old 1956 GMC pickup truck (in mint condition, I might add), named "NellyBelle" that we all piled into. For many years the front seat was "loaded" with Dad, Mom (not a light person), my brother, myself and the family Dachsund, "Snoopy". We would stuff our "tiny" family into this pickup and head upwards toward Spruce Canyon, an old army/AirForce radar base on the mountain. The most lovely trees were up there. Dad would find an old logging trail or some such not-to-well beaten path, and follow it until he was sure that we wouldn't be caught. (We never did purchase a permit to get our tree, but we never did get caught, either.) When Mom squealed that this looked like the place, Dad would pull over and park. We'd all pile out of the cab, and in a mess of boots, parkas, mittens, scarves, stocking caps and underlying long johns, we'd all start trudging out toward the woods in search of the perfect tree. Snoopy, being bigger around than she was tall, would hop through the snow like a jack rabbit, almost getting lost with every step. Inevitably my brother would throw snowballs at Dad and I, never at Mom, until she was far enough past him to "bean" her in the butt. One Winter, we had parked the pickup near a very high bank that we had to climb, and we had a hilarious time trying to get Mom up the bank. Whenever she'd get close to the top, she'd lose her footing and slide back down again. I'm almost convinced she was enjoying the sliding more than the climbing. After a search, and a lot of playing in the snow, (we often stopped to make a snowman in the middle of the woods, my brother and I), we would see the tree that would make our Christmas the brightest, merriest Christmas ever. Dad produced the folding saw that he always carried on such occasions, and sawed the trunk at just the right spot. After it fell, Dad would grab the trunk end, and my brother would grab the top. I always wanted to "help", so I grabbed the tip of a limb on the side of the tree as the two of them carried it back to the pickup. Dad would strap it down into the truck bed as we all stamped our feet and crammed ourselves back into the cab.
At home, the tree, having been shaken of it's remaining snowflakes, would stand in the garage until the next day, (which was always a grueling wait for me), at which time Mom would initiate the decorating and trimming. Boxes and boxes of decorations for both the tree and the house were brought out of garage storage and placed in the living room. It looked like moving day. Mom would place the "pretties" around the hearth, the table, the walls, the doo
rs, anyplace there was an empty space for Christmas, and my brother and I would each separately place decorations on the tree that had been collected or made by us personally. When we'd exhausted our personal baubles, we would share the ones that Mom, herself, had collected; the glass snowmen imported from Italy, the glass raspberries and robins that had been her mother's, the purple egg carton ball that Aunt Jackie had made for Mom when they were little themselves, among many other precious treasures. Sometimes we would string popcorn. Other years we would throw the strings of tinsel icicles on each of the branches as my father looked on in dismay at what would have to be vacuumed later. I don't have this opportunity anymore, to go out and "find" the perfect tree. But the spirit of those journeys was very strongly with me as I decorated my Walmart "find" this year. It is only a three foot plastic job that sits on my end table beside my sofa, but it shines just as brightly as those of my past.
Everyone has a different story connected to their Christmas tree, which makes the tree unique to all of us. May that story burn brightly in your memories as you decorate and view your tree this year. It just wouldn't be Christmas without it. May the peace of God be with all of you.
