ProetryPlace Blog 34, Christmas Day 2013

    The history of the evergreen tree as a symbol of life, hope and rebirth reaches far back into ancient times. The tree has been adopted and adapted by many cultures over time and has been an important and cherished Christian tradition since the 16th century.

    Our world and yours has changed in many ways for better and for worse in the 15 years since I wrote the following little memoir titled “The Tree,” but the spirit of the tree lives on year after year and continues to brighten our Christmases.

THE TREE

    In the dark of night, I dragged the old tree up the steep driveway from our front door to the roadside. The tree was brittle and fragile now, without much weight, not at all like when I had brought it into our house, heavy, green and pitchy, the night before Christmas. Branches snapped and needles scattered like frightened ants, but the tree still breathed life with the same strong, sweet scent of evergreen that had given us such pleasure for the past several weeks.

    “That tree sure does smell good,” we remarked to each other every time we passed it.

    “And look, it hasn’t lost a needle yet, not one.”

    Now, stripped of its ornaments and bright, colored lights, a few strands of silver tinsel drooping to the ground, it lay wounded on its side like an old soldier, no longer tall and full of life, but still proud. In the morning, the yard-waste crew would take it away and grind it into little chips, giving it new form and life as mulch or compost. I said, “Goodbye Tree,” almost expecting a reply, and walked back to the house alone.

    When Dolly and I were first married, we had little money for trees. Our ornaments were hand-me-downs or hand-made gifts. I shopped for our tree late on Christmas Eve, looking for a bargain, and I hoped for a bitter-cold, Wisconsin evening. Although the selection was sparse, the bargaining was quicker then, with seller and buyer eager to seek the comfort of home and family.

    “How much for this one?”

    “I'll take twenty.”

    “It’s a little crooked. How about five?”

    “Ten.”

    “I only have seven dollars.”

    “Sold. I'll help you tie it on the car.”

   When our children were grown a bit, I took the oldest to help me on the annual tree mission. I wanted my selection of the perfect tree confirmed by another family member, although the thrill of going out into the late afternoon cold and snow was sometimes lost on them. I appealed to their sense of duty: “The younger kids need our help.” Or fear: “Santa will pass us by if we don't have a tree.” Or simple greed: “I'll double your allowance to fifty cents this month.”

    After a few years of tree-duty, the older child invariably suggested the next brother or sister in line should have the honor and experience. Thus, all four of our children became educated in the ritual of the tree.

   The years passed and bargaining was not so critical to the family budget, but I continued the tradition just for fun and to make sure each child learned the process. It was important to know that one just did not pay the sticker price for a tree, even when it seemed to be the last one for sale in the city.  

    “Dad, you better take this one. We’ve been to three tree-lots already. Let's go home!”

    “Not yet, sunshine, we’ll find a good one somewhere for a better price.”

    And the game continued until we did.

    After we delivered the tree at home and the children were safely in bed, Santa Claus took over the late-night set-up and decorating job. Sometimes a branch might be missing, here or there. Some years, Santa had the tree listing a bit to port or starboard. Once he tied it to a hook in the wall behind, after all efforts to have it stand straight in the stand failed.  Yet, always on Christmas morning, sheltering the miniature manger and stacks of gifts beneath its wide branches, and proudly holding the shining star high on its tip at the ceiling, the tree twinkled and beckoned to us all.

    Now our kids have grown and moved away. This year I thought a small tree would do—one of those you pull out of a box, all lighted and decorated. All you have to do is straighten out the branches a little. I would not have to go out alone to search for the perfect specimen once again. But while I shopped in the gardening department, I saw it there, off to the side from all the rest. It was full and ceiling tall, and I knew that it was The Tree! I asked, “How much?” The reply did not really matter. I had already decided.

    No one thought we had Charlie Brown’s tree this year. Gathered together on Christmas Day, our children, their children, and we all agreed it was the best tree ever. Most of the ornaments and lights have changed over the years, but we still use a treasured few.

    “Look, there is one with a picture of Grandma. She looks so pretty!”

    “There is Daddy when he was just your little boy.”

And the lumpy clay stocking fashioned by small hands years ago with the sad little note still attached, “I guess this is a little small, but I can't help it now.”

    We will pack away our collection of ornaments and lights into the tattered and discolored corrugate box that has housed them for almost sixty years, and take them to rest in the attic until Santa calls them out again next Christmas. Then the familiar ornaments will adorn the newest Tannenbaum, to bring more smiles of recollection, or sometimes, a tear of regret.

    Each year the tree is fresh, grand and new, and being so renews us too

Richard Allen Anderson, Roswell, Georgia, circa 1998