Joy is a Dancing Christmas Tree

“Pull, Daddy,” we all called.

“No, too much. Okay, right there.” Mom and Virginia both agreed the Christmas tree was now in the perfect spot.

“Perfect, Daddy. Tie it right there.” Big sister Virginia always had the last say. Rodney and I knew Virginia possessed an artist’s eye, because she told us she did and who were we to argue with Virginia.

I loved Christmas Tree Day. The whole family did too. But I think Daddy enjoyed it even more than we kids did. Earlier in the day, as he helped to bundle up the four children in their overalls, coats, heavy mittens, and boots, I knew Daddy was thinking back on his most memorable Christmas as a child. It was a Hanukkah celebration in the Jewish orphanage when he was very young. Gifts were handed out all around, and Daddy received a bright red fire truck with a ladder and whistle. But when one of the older boys saw it, he made Daddy trade with him or run the risk of being beat up again. In return for the fire truck, a small plastic ladder with a clown was forced into his hands. The clown used to climb up one side of the ladder and down the other. But the clown had been broken, so he didn’t climb at all. I remember when he first told us the story. I cried, but Daddy said he didn’t tell us the story to make us sad, but instead he wanted us to realize what we had in our family…each other. Daddy had decided a long time ago that Christmas on the farm would be different; it would be the most fun time of the whole year for his little ones.

The hunt for the tree started with a search through the thick woods on the top of the hill. The biggest pine trees on the farm grew up there. Finding and decorating the most perfect Christmas tree was a daylong process.

This year, four-month old Emery rode latched into his snow sled as the three farm dogs pranced around eager to have a part in the hike. The family crunched through the snow up the side hill of the farm, as we reviewed the strict criteria to make sure everyone was on the same page.

“Remember,” ten-year-old Rodney began, “it has to be real tall. Taller than me, taller than Daddy.” Even though Daddy only stood at 5’2”, we still thought of him as a giant.

“It has to have lots of branches.” I remembered last year when I was only six, how I loved the bigness of that tree…and every Christmas tree I had ever known in our home. “We have to have room for everything this year and lots of icicles, too.”

“Let’s just be sure it’s not too wide for the back door,” Virginia continued the criteria listing. “You know Mom wasn’t real happy when we had to take the back door off last year.” We all peeked back at Mom pulling Emery’s sled. But she had a strange smile on her face as if she remembered it with fondness.

“And only one top!” Virginia insisted. Twelve-year-old Virginia was determined that this year the tree would be a masterpiece.

As we all ran from one pine tree to the next and back again, we finally agreed on the perfect one. Perfect in every way. It was tall, but not too tall; lots of branches, but not too wide for the door; and it had one top. Perfect! To get it back to the house, Daddy tied it to the other sled that he had pulled up the hill. The tree engulfed the large sled and even though Daddy had tied it on tight, we kids had to help hold it onto the sled as we laughed and chattered all the way back down the hill.

When we reached the back door of the house, we scurried to untie the ropes and stand our tree up. Our number one criteria had been a success. It was tall…real tall. So tall that about four feet had to be cut off the top. That allowed for six tops to appear, which squashed Virginia’s criteria of only one top. My “lots of branches” had to be trimmed down so the beauty could squeeze through the door. But at least this year the back door didn’t have to come off.

After wedging the tree in between slabs of wood in a coal bucket, we anchored it to the ceiling with a rope. Daddy tied off the rope and the family stood back and made sure that it indeed stood straight and didn’t lean to one side or the other.

We tried to wait patiently as Mom and Daddy ran the string of big electric bulbs onto the branches. Then us kids took charge as we hooked several bulbs on each branch. Every so often, a bulb crashed to the floor as my little fingers tried to eagerly race to see how many I could get on before my brother. But this was all taken in stride; after all, this was Christmas Tree Day.

Daddy was glad he worked for Corning Glass Works where they made Christmas bulbs. The factory stored the defective bulbs in huge bins and every year the employees’ families could come in and buy these bulbs at huge discounts. Huge bins of every color…red, blue, green, gold and silver, filled the massive room. And at great prices…no bulb cost more than twenty-five cents. Mom made sure that we chose mostly from the five-cent bins. Over the years, our family had amassed so many bulbs, and every glass bulb had to be used and then each top needed a star or a big bulb turned upside down.

Once all the bulbs were on, Virginia insisted that the icicles be laid gently one-by-one on each branch. She said this would create a more professional look to the tree and really bring it to life. But one mischievous look from Rodney said it all for me. “Are you ready?” And I was! This was the most fun time of decorating. Would we ever let a wanna-be-professional-tree-decorator spoil our fun? Rodney and I stood back and gleefully threw silver icicles by handfuls. Virginia, defeated again, just gave up. She waited until all the icicles were laying in clumps on the already too ornamented branches and tried to rearrange them as best she could. Rodney and I thought the clumps made the silver strings look more like snow. After the meticulous trimming of the tree, the family stood back and fixed our eyes on our handiwork in utter amazement.

Tradition continued and that night we opened our first Christmas gift. It was the same every year, but it was still exciting. All the kids ripped into the packages and brought out matching pajamas. Daddy hurried to get a picture of his four cherubs in our pajamas under the tree before Emery fell asleep.

Then the phone call had to be made to the cousins who lived downtown. “The tree is up…hurry and come see it. It’s beautiful,” I exclaimed to cousin Carole on the phone.

Within the next couple of days Aunt Ilene, Uncle Wilbur and cousins Carole and Sharon braved the icy country roads to come see yet another dancing tree that protruded halfway out into the living room with one branch here and another there. Every year they took pictures of their country cousins’ tree and went away smiling. It seemed to make the city cousins’ Christmas season special for them to see such a gorgeous tree.

Mom always ordered several different kinds of candies from Sears and Roebuck catalog to arrive in time for Christmas Tree Day. She stored the tin cans of ribbon candy, chocolate peanuts, jelly-filled hard candies and taffy on the screened-in front porch. When the door to the porch was opened, the smell of that candy, mixed with the fragrance of the evergreen tree, filled the entire house with the aroma of Christmas.

Great care was given to our special tree. The bucket in which it stood received plenty of water each day. Rodney and I fought for that job. We liked crawling under the low branches and inching to the bucket on our bellies with the pitcher of water. Usually most of my water ended up on the floor and Rodney had to clean up the mess and finish the job. Nevertheless, we determined that this year all needles would remain on the tree until the very end.

For the next week, Virginia and I played dolls at the base of the tree. We stored our little plastic cups and saucers under the tree for quick tea parties. Rodney made fun of our dishes and dolls and lined his army men all around the bucket as if to protect the tree from the dolls taking over.
New Year’s Day signaled the close of the Christmas season. We never had as much fun removing all the icicles as we had putting them on, but we knew every bit had to come off. We carefully took down all the glass bulbs and wrapped them up for the next year. Then Rodney and Daddy carried the boxes up to the attic to be stored.

According to Mom, the season was not officially over yet. Mom laid bones on the tree branches and invited the farm dogs in for their Christmas fun. Those dogs could jump quite high for their Yuletide treats. In Mom’s opinion everyone needed some Christmas cheer.

Pulling our poor tree out of the house was never as difficult as taking it in. Drawing our once gorgeous work of art through the living room and kitchen left huge piles of needles behind. The base of the tree then had to be packed tight with snow to hold it up. We wadded pieces of bread into balls and molded them onto the needle-less branches for the hungry birds. The bare tree stood in the back yard for several days until Mom was sure that the birds had been fed sufficiently.

The last role for our tree was bittersweet for us. All together, we pulled it to the orchard and late at night in the cold winter air, it provided a warm bonfire to cook hotdogs and marshmallows pierced onto apple tree twigs.

Yes, every year our Christmas tree gave many hours of enjoyment for our family, as well as for many other living creatures on the farm. Those were special trees--lovingly sought out for a special purpose. Many memories were built at the base of those trees as my siblings and I crawled under the huge branches. It never mattered that our parents could only afford to give us small gifts every year; the Christmas season was always looked on as the best time. I think the tree had a lot to do with that.