The Christmas Tree

Childhood memories of a deeply suspicious nature

The Christmas Tree

Every year, Dad and Nanny went in search of the perfect Christmas tree for our living room. Before you envision snowy treks through the woods, axe in hand, searching for a beautiful fir with symmetrical branches which is then hauled home on a sled, I must interject that we lived in Alabama. Snow was as scarce as hen’s teeth and sleds appeared only in story books about other people’s search for the perfect Christmas tree. My father and grandmother began their journey the way so many journeys begin in Southern tales. In a pickup truck.

I must also interject that while my father and Nanny were related by marriage and not blood, they were of like mind when it came to activities that were less than circumspect. While neither would steal or rob or overtly break the law, there were times when certain aspects of the law fell into gray areas. Namely, if they saw something, wanted it, and nobody was around to lay claim to it, they felt justified in removing said item. I once witnessed my father yank a tree seedling out of the ground in the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. It was the only time I ever saw him run. Being forty pounds overweight it was more of a mincing trot, but it left an impression.

Every Christmas Dad and Nanny would put the implement of choice in the back of  the pickup truck and drive around our county, looking for trees to liberate. Annoying technicalities, such as property lines and no trespassing signs, troubled them not. It was one tree, after all. There were plenty more around. And, if I am completely honest, it wasn’t even a whole tree. It was the top of a perfect tree. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Throughout my childhood, we invariably moved every 3-5 years. My father had terrible luck choosing jobs. What started out with promise, good salary, and hopes of advancement always ended in a layoff and subsequent move a few years later. I’m not exactly sure why we had to pull up stakes and head for a new town. One would think there would be suitable employment opportunities in our current place of residence. Perhaps, like me, once my father had enough of a place, that was it. Time to leave and shake the dust off your feet as you drove away.

Also, invariably, we ended up in a small hamlet of insular people who looked askance at newcomers. Especially hillbillies from the coal country of north-central Alabama. The fact that, like me, my father had a distinctively creative way of problem solving that confounded most people did little to endear us to those who had lived and worked all their lives among the same families. Our yearly tree cutting expedition was, perhaps, a subtle form of rebellion. If so, we weren’t alone. I once witnessed a fully decorated Christmas tree halfway up the side of a hill next to the interstate in one of our towns of residence. I never could reckon out how the garland fairy accomplished that feat of engineering.

Since we always managed to live somewhere in which there were vast stretches of uninhabited acreage, our tree selection knew no bounds. And since no one was actually selling these trees, they suited our budged perfectly. I never saw a Christmas tree lot until I was an adult living in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I was pregnant with my second child before I visited a legitimate Christmas tree farm. This, however, did not mean my father lacked standards.

 

 

 

Our tree needed to have the requisite fullness. It must not have obvious sparsity of branches. The trunk must be of sufficient width to fit into the tree stand (more or less). And it must always (always!) be a cedar tree. That’s right. Cedar. I asked my father about this once and he replied, “They smell the best.” He was right, of course. Cedar does smell lovely. However, since we live in a part of the country where the pine tree is as ubiquitous as mosquitos in summer, finding a cedar tree posed its own set of problems. I never asked my father why a pine tree wouldn’t work just as well. Perhaps I should, but even as a child I could not deprive him of the enormous pleasure cedar tree liberating gave him.

So, on the requisite day in December (usually my mother’s birthday, December 10^th) he and Nanny (my mother’s mother) headed out to parts unknown to bring home the yearly kill. Tree liberating in Alabama is a two-man operation. One needs a lookout, to spot a likely victim, since the driver cannot scan the treeline and drive at the same time. And, since one must only remove the top the cedar tree, my dad needed a partner to hold the tree steady while he cut. Sometimes he used an axe. Sometimes he employed the use of a chainsaw. It depended on how much effort he wished to expend on that year’s expedition.

I never stopped to wonder at the sight the two of them made. My father, bald, fifty something, and weighing about 240. My grandmother, pushing seventy and hair piled high on top of her head in a woven bouffant. The two of them, chainsaw in hand, loping up the side of a hill to lop the top out of a cedar tree and then hauling it back to the pickup truck in triumph. Had video surveillance existed in the mid 70s the police would have peed themselves laughing and let them off for entertainment value alone. It surely must have been a spectacle, given they did not wear gloves or safety gear. They did not bother to tie the tree up. And dragging the tree back to the pickup truck must have been a prickly endeavor, given the fact that cedar trees have spiky fronds.

Once our redneck version of Laurel and Hardy actually procured our yearly tree and brought it back to the house, it must (must!) sit in the tree stand in the garage for a day before bringing it indoors. I have no explanation for this. Perhaps it was to allow any nesting birds or other critters to vacate the premises. Perhaps it was to be sure the tree was actually going to stay in the stand without falling over or sliding out. Since my father and his partner in crime didn’t take the stand with them (or any measurements) it was a crap shoot as to whether the tree would remain in the stand unassisted. On more than one occasion he had to take a hatchet and notch the bottom in order to get it to fit. On others, the timely application of some long screws were needed to hold the harbinger of seasonal festivities in place. My personal belief is that after roaming the countryside, traipsing the through the woods, violating property boundaries, and all rituals necessary to bring the tree home, my father was in no mood for the excitement of decorating the damn thing.

I use the term ‘excitement’ loosely. I am more than reasonably sure I was the only one the least bit excited. Decorating a cedar tree required a level of finesse, prayer, cursing, and breath-holding that could only be accomplished through years of practice. Those spiky fronds were not designed to hold ornaments, lights, garland, tinsel, and all the other glittery spangled things a pre-teen deems necessary. In order to keep the ornaments from falling off, they must be balanced more than hung. The heavier ornaments must be placed as close to the trunk as possible, where the root of the frond is thickest. Once, my grandmother purchased a silver ornament that made actual bird sounds. After about 20 mintues I threatened to send it to Christmas ornament heaven with the Red Ryder BB gun I got for Christmas during my Annie Oakley phase.

Decorating the tree was also a risky venture because we always lost some of the red glass ornaments left from the aluminum Christmas tree my parents purchased in the early 60s. There were tray upon tray of them and each year, sitting in the closet, some would quietly implode. You had to delicately disentangle the hanger from the shattered neck of the ornament, gather up the pieces, and toss them in the dust bin. You couldn’t drop any of the pieces or tiny shards because “the dog might eat them and die.” I never understood how this was going to happen, since the dog was not allowed in the house. But before the yearly ritual of ornament balancing could begin, all the broken orphans must be cannibalized for spare parts and swept away.

My approach to tree decoration as a child was quite simple. Absolutely everything must go on the tree. All the red glass ornaments. All the homemade ornaments my brother and I made every year from preschool on up. Every color of garland (red, green, gold, and silver). The leftover Christmas ornaments from the school fundraiser that nobody wanted or bought. The shredded silver cellophane stuff that passed for tinsel before it was outlawed as a danger to pets and small children. All of it must be nestled all snug within the fronds of the Christmas tree until the end result looked like all of Whoville vomited on the recently liberated evergreen.

None of that could take place, of course, until the lights were placed (somewhat precariously) within the prickles. Our Christmas lights initially were outdoor lights that once graced our window or front porch railing. But when my dad could no longer be arsed to put up outdoor lights, we hung them on our tree. Like all mid-century Christmas tree lights, if one bulb did not work, none of the worked. Then my dad would have to search the paper bag of spare bulbs to find a still operational replacement, and then identify the dead culprit in the string that needed replacing. This activity could go on for hours and was always entertaining. Anything that made my dad get so frustrated he used one of his limited repertoires of swear words was comedy gold to a ten-year-old. Thankfully, the entire string gave up the ghost one year, requiring us to purchase the more modern ones that work for one year and then lose all their potency sitting in the closet until the next Christmas. Those required my father to use his jerry-rigging skills to magic up a working string of lights using a soldering iron, pliers, and a roll of electrical tape. This also resulted in a lengthy light-fixing session with the requisite swear words, but at least we could throw out the paper bag of spare bulbs.

Once the lights actually worked, and made it onto the tree, I was free to regurgitate decorations to my heart’s content. I went about it with the zeal one reserves for lengthy athletic events or tent revivals. My teenage brother wouldn’t be caught dead decorating a tree, so this was my sole responsibility. Once finished, a small family of elves could have used the tree for camouflage because there was no discernible trace of greenery left. It was a winking, blinking, sparkly, spangled, god-awful mess. My hands were raw for days from the cedar tree prickles. The smell of cedar was lost amidst the smell of all the plastic and metal, and everyone was too exhausted and irritable to enjoy it properly for about a week afterward. I’m surprised my mother didn’t cry, thinking of all the work involved in taking the tree down, and my brother was drop-dead embarrassed we had a tree that looked like a Christmas nightmare.

I was proud of myself, though. To me, this tree was the essence of Christmas, distilled into my living room. It was tradition, and family, and that warm, golden glow of peace and goodwill towards men. It’s hard to explain how a stolen treetop, some dodgy lights and a vomitous excess of decoration came to represent the birth of an infant Savior. Perhaps it was the somewhat ratty looking angel we placed on the top of the tree. Perhaps it was knowing that for a few weeks, everyone would bristle with excitement and generosity. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the innocence of the child I was then, seeing beauty and hope and peace on earth in the glorious disaster of our stolen tree.

Small wonder we left it up until well after New Year’s Day.

Author's Note

Nothing says Christmas like a hillbilly Christmas tree

Reviews

[FGFRANKLIN]

I enjoyed the entirety and the tongue in cheek sort of humor that accompanied. It's good to keep treasures of Christmases past, both in spirit and memories; maybe even an old ornament with special thoughts and feelings attached. Speaking of the "redneck" aspect, I drove my wife bonkers this year learning "Merry Christmas from the Family" by Robert Earl Keen on my guitar. The chords are simple but placed sort of haphazard among the lyrics. I love it. But after I played it for the thirtieth time it had lost much of its appeal to my wife. (laughing) But hey, I got it down pat now and added it to my seasonal repertoire.

[emmajoygreen]

'Our tree needed to have the requisite fullness. It must not have obvious sparsity of branches. The trunk must be of sufficient width to fit into the tree stand (more or less). And it must always (always!) be a cedar tree. That’s right. Cedar. I asked my father about this once and he replied, “They smell the best.” He was right, of course. Cedar does smell lovely. However, since we live in a part of the country where the pine tree is as ubiquitous as mosquitos in summer, finding a cedar tree posed its own set of problems. I never asked my father why a pine tree wouldn’t work just as well. Perhaps I should, but even as a child I could not deprive him of the enormous pleasure cedar tree liberating gave him.

So, on the requisite day in December (usually my mother’s birthday, December 10th) he and Nanny (my mother’s mother) headed out to parts unknown to bring home the yearly kill. Tree liberating in Alabama is a two-man operation. One needs a lookout, to spot a likely victim, since the driver cannot scan the treeline and drive at the same time. And, since one must only remove the top the cedar tree, my dad needed a partner to hold the tree steady while he cut. Sometimes he used an axe. Sometimes he employed the use of a chainsaw. It depended on how much effort he wished to expend on that year’s expedition.'

If your eyebrows rose and your lips curled whilst just reading the bit above, you need read it all.. and run through Christmas laughing! This really is a great post . filled with all the right things pre- Holidays when you need to relax a while bui keep deep in the mood. Great description, great fun! READ!

[Zoe Richardson]

Thank you so much for your kind words. I am always leery of posting prose. I always feel it is not good enough and no one will bother reading it. I am so glad you did read, and that you enjoyed it! The most happiest of holidays to you, dear one. May you go through them laughging, merry, and bright!

[emmajoygreen]

Many thanks. :)

[Lorry]

And that boys and girls, is a proper family Christmas tale! 😊
What a brilliant tale. So far removed from my own Christmas memories, but still kinda relatable.
And even here in cold a*s Scotland, we can all relate to your Dad and Nan, knowing someone they reminded us of.
I think that you can only be truly funny if you can laugh at yourself and you do this admirably well.
It's now near 1AM here and who for the life of me would have guessed I am now gonna go off to bed thinking I'm a little bit jealous that I've never saw a hillbilly Christmas tree! 😊

[Zoe Richardson]

If it makes you feel any better,, I go to bed every night a little bit jealous that I am not in cold-a*s Scotland. As for the hillbilly Christmas tree...come on over. I can guarantee you hospitality, excellent cookery, and all the hillbilly tree expeditions you can stand!