I cannot imagine a Christmas tree that is filled with more love and meaning than my family’s tree. Each ornament has been made with love, and the memory of the Christmas trees past. And even now that I am grown with a family of my own, I still cherish our family tree, and the memory of what my Dad and I created together.
~Elena Aitken
O Tannenbaum
Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree.
In the eyes of children, they are all 30 feet tall.
~Larry Wilde, The Merry Book of Christmas
Today, I am going to share a story with you. It’s the story of a perfect family—Mom, Dad and son—who go into the forest to chop down the perfect Christmas tree. They sip hot cocoa as they wander through the trees, searching for a fabulous nine-foot specimen with lots of branches to hold their heirloom ornaments. When they find just the right tree, they stop, pose for pictures and then saw it down. They tie the tree to their truck and sing Christmas carols all the way home.
And once they get there, the family strings popcorn and lights throughout the tree. Then they hang their precious ornaments from its branches, telling the history of each one as it is hung.
The words above are complete fiction. I don’t know who that family is, but I do know one thing: those people aren’t related to me. You see, in my family, getting the tree is a little bit different.
Actually, it’s a lot different.
First there’s that whole cocoa thing. Sure, we’ve got cocoa to sip. But we have two thermoses—one that holds my special blend so that I stay happy through the entire trip and don’t notice that it’s raining, cold and/or windy. No, once I have a few sips of my special cocoa, I’m happy and warm, sometimes even a bit silly.
Then there’s the search for the tree. I don’t know about you, but the perfect tree has never just popped up in front of me. Instead, we wander for what seems like days looking for a tree we can all agree on. Finally, someone will need to use the restroom and, at that point, we just pick the tree we’re closest to and cut it down.
Which brings us to the saw. The minute Junior sees it, he grabs it and runs through the tree farm yelling, “Watch out! It’s Freddy vs. Jason!” By the time we catch up to him, I’m out of breath and nearly out of my special hot cocoa.
And once the saw is confiscated and the tree is cut, there’s the question of which way the tree will fall. Look, maybe it’s me, but if the person doing the sawing is saying, “look out on the left” wouldn’t you wonder whose left that person is talking about? Is it my left or Harry’s left? I usually have it figured it out by the time the tree falls on my head. All I can say is thank goodness for my special cocoa since it dulls the pain.
Once the darned tree is tied down to the truck, it’s time to drive home. Okay, at this point we could sing carols, but honestly, not one member of my family can carry a tune. And besides, we’re too busy making sure that the tree doesn’t fall out of the truck and onto the highway to remember the words to “Silent Night.”
Once we get home, we drag the tree into the house and jam it in the stand. That’s about the time we discover that 1) driving home removed every single needle from the tree; and 2) the trunk is crooked and the tree looks like a nine-foot tall, bald, question mark.
Let’s not even get into heirloom ornaments. Suffice it to say that on Junior’s second Christmas—the one where he had just started to walk—he discovered the tree. He would stand next to it, watching the lights and gazing at the collection of handmade crystal balls that I had lovingly collected. And then one day, Junior removed several of those lovely crystal ornaments and used them to demonstrate his newly discovered throwing skills.
And we’ve had plastic ever since.
And that is the true story of how a true family goes out and cuts down a tree. Of course, this true family got a little tired of the tradition—so this year we bought a fake tree. Its trunk is straight and it has most of its little plastic needles clinging to it. But I still sipped my special cocoa when we set it up in the living room.
After all, there are some traditions you should never abandon.
~Laurie Sontag
Touched by Love
In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.
~Robert Ingersoll
“Can I have this one, Connie?” my ten-year-old stepson, Conan, asked in reference to a Christmas ornament I was unpacking. It was the second Saturday before Christmas and Conan was visiting us for the weekend. We had just brought our freshly cut Christmas tree inside the house and my husband had lugged several boxes of decorations from the basement. Our four-year-old son, Chase, along with Conan, was helping me unpack them. Our one-year-old daughter, Chelsea, was watching intently from her playpen.
We had several “special” ornaments. I wasn’t certain a ten-year-old child would appreciate the intricacies of hand-sewn beads and sequins on the Santa ornament, or the fragility of the painted sand dollar from our favorite beach vacation spots. Some of the ornaments held special memories of the people who made them, or the places we had visited while on vacation. I wanted to keep them and protect them until he was older.
Besides, if I let him have one now, I might never see it again.
Suddenly I got a bright idea. “Conan, how about if we start a new tradition?”
“Like what?” he asked.
“How about this: every year we will buy you a new ornament. You can use a permanent marker to write your name and the year on it and we’ll keep all of them together here, in a box. And then when you’re eighteen years old, you’ll have lots of special ornaments for your own tree.”
His smile told me he liked the idea. I handed him an ornament of a miniature Christmas storybook and he immediately clasped it in his hands, enthralled by it. He took it to the couch and flipped through the pages of the tiny, two-inch ’Twas the Night Before Christmas book, pleasantly surprised by its cute size and by its timeless endearing message.
Bright for his age, I should have anticipated his next question.
“Well, how about this?” Conan began, with a pensive look on his face. “Since I’m already ten, how about if I pick out ten ornaments now, one for each year I’ve been alive, and write my name and a year on them? That way I’ll have eighteen ornaments, one for each year, for when I’m grown up.”
By now I had hung up all the fragile ornaments. I dug out the box of unbreakable ornaments, tickled by his quick thinking. I sat the opened box in front of him and said, “Sure, go ahead and pick out ten.”
Conan’s face lit up as he carefully carried the box to the kitchen table. He very slowly and intently made his selections. And just as carefully, he printed his name and a year on his prized ten, each representing a year in his young life.
For the next couple of years we remembered the pact and my husband and I purchased an ornament for him, but as he entered his teenage years we all forgot.
And then, in the middle of his seventeenth year, on a beautiful day in May, the unthinkable happened; Conan was killed in a car accident.
The first few months following his death were a painful blur—we went through the motions of living. The grief counselor warned us that the holidays would be especially difficult and he was right. I don’t think any of us tasted the turkey at Thanksgiving, and I, personally, struggled with giving thanks that year.
Normally, at the first sign of frost, I would get excited about Christmas. I’d start singing Christmas carols and pull out my favorite recipes so I could bake cookies and freeze them for gifts. But that year it was all I could do to go through the motions of decorating the house for the holidays.
Chase and Chelsea, who by now were eleven and eight, were not interested in helping decorate the tree, obviously struggling, too. So, late on a Saturday night after my husband had put the tree in its stand and everyone was in bed, I lugged up the trimmings for the freshly cut tree, including the boxes of ornaments.
After first checking al
l of the strands of lights to see if they worked, I carelessly flung them on the tree. Then I pulled out the stepladder and climbed the few steps to the top of the tree, gingerly attaching the angel to its designated place of honor.
I turned to the box of fragile ornaments. I quickly unwrapped the timeworn beaded and sequined Santa ornament along with the sand dollars and others, going through the motions of hanging the ornaments so I could quickly get it over with.
As soon as I had emptied the box of my favorite fragile ornaments, I turned to search for the box of inexpensive ornaments. As I did so, I suddenly recalled an excited ten-year-old. I swallowed hard.
Locating the box, I gingerly lifted the lid, and right on top was the tiny little Christmas book ornament. On the front was the title, ’Twas the Night Before Christmas, and on the back, scribbled in a child’s excited handwriting, was the name CONAN, in capital letters, as if to lay claim for all eternity.
I wiped the tears from my eyes and dug out the other dozen or so ornaments with his name on them. Some were handmade, some were store-bought, but they suddenly became irreplaceable to me.
Bittersweet memories comforted me as I realized that sometimes the traditions we end up treasuring the most in life have nothing to do with expensive fragile items. Rather, sometimes the most precious memories we can have are those involving ordinary items that have been forever touched by love.
~Connie Sturm Cameron
A Joyful Surprise
Every day may not be good, but there’s something good in every day.
~Author Unknown
The year was almost over. November had vacillated between holding onto autumn and allowing winter in, but winter finally came to stay. December brought a raw chill and the clouds delivered a mixture of ice and rain that was more mush than snow. The deciduous trees finally released the last of their leaves and the sky seemed exposed without their moderating cover. There was a sudden dreariness in the yard. Even the evergreens seemed to have lost their vigor. The needles of the black pine appeared sparse and joyless.
I went out bundled up in a sweater and jacket to feed the birds and scooted back inside instead of standing and watching the birds mass on the feeders as I like to do, welcoming them as they light on the sunflower seed-filled cylinders. Today they would have to find the meal without my encouragement.
The lit-up store windows, usually the harbinger of the holiday season, only pointed out the grayness of the weather. Where was the holiday spirit that traditionally energized the end of the year?
I went about my December days shopping, working, cooking, and cleaning in the gray blandness. Nature tried to help me. The sun peeked through the clouds occasionally. The starlings were out in force layering first one tree, then another, with their speckled feathers and raucous cries. I laughed to see them take flight as if they were one huge bird. The house finches, too, swooped en masse onto the feeders. Their dusty red chests added tiny touches of color to the day.
My neighborhood cheered itself up with Christmas decorations. Some houses were subtle, with spots of white glowing softly in windows. Others had lawns decorated with reindeer and sleighs, blowup Santas, and swirly light trees that were more like paintings than trees. One display had a snowstorm encapsulated in a plastic globe! Nothing much natural about it, but certainly a lot of fun.
The days got colder as the holiday approached. Clouds of white escaped with each breath. I took fast walks in the frigid air to keep my spirits energized. But day after day blended together and I longed for something to shake me out of my lethargy. Each day I wished for a joyful surprise, not even imaging what that might be.
Then it happened. I was going out to my car and heard a lot of squawking in my front yard. It came from the direction of the flowering plum tree I so loved. What I saw was incredible. Underneath the tree was a flock of iridescent grackles, thick as a blanket, pecking for seed. On all the branches were speckled starlings, masking the tree’s bareness with dots of white as if a delicate snow had fallen. A blue jay here and another there stood out like a blue ornament. At the very top was a male cardinal lighting up the tree with his red brilliance as if he were a shining star. And each bird was singing in its own voice—the starlings raucous as usual, the grackles loud and brash, the blue jays sounding like squeaky doors, and the cardinal chip-chipping away, all creating a cacophonous but beautiful carol.
I gasped and tried not to move, afraid that the spectacle would disappear. It was a Christmas tree decorated by Mother Nature herself. A joyful surprise indeed.
I don’t know how long I stood there transfixed by what I was seeing but when I finally edged toward my car to get out of the cold, the birds took off. In one whoosh, they were gone. The tree was barren once more, only not really, not to me. Whenever I looked that way I no longer saw bare branches; I recalled the birds, plumped against the cold, covering them. I could hear the uninhibited singing vibrating the frosty air. I sensed the limbs invigorated with vibrant, feathery life.
I was rejuvenated, eager to set aside the gray doldrums. All I had to do was think of that incredible Christmas tree and remember that joy is a frame of one’s mind, not a state of the weather.
~Ferida Wolff
A Child’s Gift of Love
A daughter is a gift of love.
~Author Unknown
It always seemed like having traditions was a good thing. They create memories that will last a lifetime. So when our children, David and Darla, were preschoolers we started a family Christmas tradition. It was our tree-trimming party and it would be complete with eggnog and pfeffernüsse cookies.
The kids were excited as we hauled the freshly cut tree into the house. It smelled so good. The ornament boxes were brought up from the basement. We would turn on the Christmas carols and the tree trimming would begin. The routine was always the same: First the lights—oh, how they’d sparkle; then the ornaments—each child had favorites. This was followed by the precise (or not) draping of some beads, and topped off with delicately hung tinsel.
Our hearts seemed to dance to the merriment of the Christmas carols. The kids’ eyes twinkled with excitement and anticipation. It was a heartwarming, cozy evening. When finished, we would sit sipping the eggnog and snack on pfeffernüsse cookies as we admired the beauty of the radiant Christmas tree.
Years later, when my daughter, Darla, was home from college, she offered to help trim the tree. I was so grateful. My husband and I were empty nesters now and I wasn’t looking forward to trimming the tree alone. With our daughter, the tree trimming was delightful. We turned on the Christmas carols. It was just fun being together, laughing and sharing the latest news of friends and what was happening in our lives.
Before we knew it, the tree trimming was finished. It was a beautiful tree and its fragrance filled the room as its trimmings majestically reigned and heralded the advent of another Christmas. As we had every year before, I brought out the eggnog and the pfeffernüsse cookies for our traditional celebration. It was always the highlight of the evening and having my daughter home in itself was a Christmas present to celebrate.
Then, amidst the laughter, Darla suddenly got very serious and said she had something to tell me. From her hesitation and body language, I knew she was dreading it.
I sat down on the couch to prepare myself for whatever this college student was about to say. She sat down next to me. I could feel my heart pounding in anticipation. Then very gently and caringly, Darla looked me in the eye and proclaimed: “Mom, I’ve never liked pfeffernüsse cookies.”
Whew, at first I was relieved. Then I realized the absolute magnitude of what she had just said. Why didn’t she ever tell me? All those childhood years, rather than hurt Mom’s feelings and spoil Mom’s tradition, she had endured the cookies in silence. From preschool through teenager years she never said a word. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but from a child’s heart, year after year after year she had given me the gift of love!
The meaning of Christmas really touched
me that year. I’ve always remembered that very special tree-trimming night when the Christmas tree lights twinkled and our hearts glowed and my daughter taught me life’s very important lesson: The best gifts aren’t always found under the Christmas tree.
~D. Kinza Christenson
In Anticipation of Doll Beds
I loved their home. Everything smelled older, worn but safe;
the food aroma had baked itself into the furniture.
~Susan Strasberg
The weathered old farmhouse had sat for generations near tall poplars lining the cinder driveway. The dining room was on a slant, perfect for sliding in sock feet on the worn wood floor. I was seven years old and had been told to stay out of the kitchen because my grandfather was making Christmas presents. I could hear the saw and see the sawdust fly between the uneven cracks of the old casing. Speckles of sawdust even got in my eyes but it didn’t matter. Christmas was coming and when you’re seven, anything can happen. And that year, it did.
We always visited our grandparents on weekends, and that year every weekend leading up to Christmas was full of extreme anticipation. What was that tall, lanky man making? Even at a young age, his hands told his story to me—strong yet gentle, worn yet kind. He farmed surrounding fields yielding hay and oats and gardens bursting with freshness that would then be canned or put in the root cellar. He relaxed by reading a Saturday Evening Post or a Zane Grey novel. Grampie loved to read.
This Christmas he’d spend whatever time he could creating things in the large kitchen, with its woodstove providing both heat and the means to bake Grandmother’s famed Christmas bread and molasses cookies. After the main meal was over and the dishes were put away, the dining room became a playroom for my cousins and me. Although we played quite hard, our ears and eyes were on alert to the commotion on the other side of that closed door.
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic Page 19
