The Old Fashion Christmas Tree

Today I'm going to honor a dear friend who entered my life when I was young with two small children. She was my neighbor here on Timber Hill for many years. She was a wonderful friend to have and to know and we spent many hours talking about life in general, her growing up years, and she enjoyed our kids so much as she had none of her own.

Before she left this world at 83 she told me she had written several short stories and had them published in women's magazines like Family Circle and Good Housekeeping. This was somewhat of a surprise, as I never knew about her writing until that moment. She was a humble person. Not one to brag about her accomplishments.

She gave me a file folder of her stories before she died, and the following Christmas story is one of them. I'm sure she would enjoy that I'm sharing it with you and it's out of my file cabinet once more. I haven't looked at or read her stories for a long time----Happy Memories.






OLD FASHIONED CHRISTMAS TREE

Out of the barn came our Uncle Ernie leading his two plump little black mares, Biddie and Topsy, harnessed and all ready to be hooked up to the bob-sled. Kids and dogs piled into the sled and snuggled down under the covers. Uncle Ernie climbed onto the seat, wrapped a robe around his legs, gathered the reins and whooped to the little mares. The bells on their harness jingled; clots of snow flew from eight sharp-shod hooves and we were swinging through the farm gate headed for the mountains and Dead Man’s gulch. The sled runners sang on the packed snow. The mares’ fat sides bounced with their smart trotting. Steam rose from their nostrils and white frost ringed their eyes and muzzles’ giving their small black faces a comical elfin look. In the box of the sled we kids munched crisp apples, slugging each other with the cores, jostling and quarreling happily.

On the rim of the gulch we all poured out of the sled and ran helter skelter among the trees each youngster noisily clamoring for his choice, knowing full well that it would be Uncle Ernie who would select the right tree finally.

Patiently and seriously he considered all our selections and then made his decision, measuring with a practiced eye for height, spread and shape.
Expertly he sliced into the trunk of the chose tree with his razor sharp ax and in moments it was down! With a shout we all ran to it and grasping lower branches wherever we could we dragged it laughing, falling and panting to the bobsled.

Beautiful long tapering top sticking out behind the kid and dogs tucked in, around, and among the branches; anywhere they could fit without breaking the precious boughs.

The tree always towered to the ceiling in Uncle Ernie’s parlor. We children spend hours in Aunt Ethel’s big hot kitchen, popping corn on the cherry red top of the coal range and stringing it on long waxed threads. For extra fancy strings we spaced cranberries between the fluffy white kernels. From the dug-out root cellar we brought the largest red Jonathon apples we could find. With snowy white dish towels we polished them ‘till they shone like glass. Then with long darning needles we strung them on short strings ready for tying to the green boughs.

If you have never seen a twelve foot Christmas tree festooned with popcorn and cranberry strings with shining red apples glinting like rosy lights all over it you have missed something wonderful to see. If you have never smelled the sharp mingled fragrance of fir incense and ripe apples you’ve suffered an irreplaceable loss in your life.

The crowning moment finally came when Aunt Ethel gently lifted out of its box the yellow haired store bought angel. It was truly a lovely thing even though the once white robe was a soft creamy color from being packed away after so many Christmases. Slowly our Aunt would reach the angel up to Uncle Ernie ready their at the top of the ladder. Carefully he affixed it to the very tip top of our tree, spreading out the wings and smoothing the robe with unexpected delicacy in his strong blunt fingers.

There with it’s arms outstretched toward us our Christmas angel beamed down upon five country kids who stood speechless with pride and wonder at the miracle of beauty their Christmas tree had become. And the smile of the angel looking down from the top of our tree was a very personal and special smile for each of us.

I don’t know about the others now, but for me the memory of our old fashioned Christmas tree and smile of our Christmas angel with hovering wings and hands outstretched to me has shed a hallowed glow over every Christmas day for low these forty years and more.

Written by Pearl A. Rambo 1961 (copyright)