The tree that stayed
The beautiful Douglas fir tree tipped the ceiling. It's branches curved downward with the weight of popcorn garlands, ropes of tinsel, icicles, and a variety of ornaments—some handmade by our four children, David, Jan, Jil and Jim—and some were holdovers from previous years. A cloudy film of angel hair glistened around each colored light (they didn't flash on and off in the 1950s).
That year the Christmas cards we had received were hung on the branches, chosen and agreed upon by at least two children. It was a beautiful tree. It had it's own special beauty because our children had put a lot of thought into the decorating and it was a Christmas that Santa's gifts would not be abundant. Oh yes, there would be a package or two for each of them, but probably not what their little hearts desired. It also would be a happy Christmas as we had lots of good food and the aroma of homemade cookies and candy drifted into every room. We were warm and comfortable in the old two-story house, sheltered from the cold north winds that cut across Stanford, a small town located in eastern Montana. Daily the house buzzed with the happy voices of our family and friends.
Our little helpers trimmed the tree the weekend before Christmas Day. After New Year's Day had passed, this mother thought it was time to disrobe the tree and remove it from the corner of the living room where it stood, taking quite a bit out of the floor space.
"Oh! No Mummy. Not yet!"
"Just a few more days."
"The house will be so bare without it."
"It's all right for a bit longer."
Who could ignore such pleas from their children? Every few days I'd suggest that we should take the tree down. No luck. A similar chorus of pleas to leave it standing bombarded me.
Jim, our 4-year-old played in front of it every day and Jil joined him when she came home from school. They found an ornament or card that they knew they hadn't seen before. David and Jan, the eldest of the four would straighten a rope of tinsel and hang fallen icicles back onto the tip of a branch.
"I'm never going to get that tree out," I told a friend.
"Why don't you do it when they're all out of the house?" she suggested.
"I can't do that, it's their tree," I replied.
Well, the not-so-beautiful, decorated Douglas fir stayed and became the talk of the small town where news travels fast. Our children even brought their friends home to see it. Needles had fallen and stuck to the carpet. Icicles had been rehung so many times that the length of some had shrunk to four inches. Colored bulbs had been replaced. Many of the paper-thin colored glass balls had shattered onto the floor and the garlands of popcorn began to look as though a family of mice had nibbled their way along a tightrope. In my eyes, it was a bedraggled mess.
"We have to take the tree down," I announced one Saturday morning, rather sternly. To my surprise they all agreed.
With love that only children possess, small hands carefully removed the angel hair, cards, tinsel, garlands, colored balls and the strings of colored lights, which were packed in a box marked, "Christmas decorations."
The skeleton of the stately Douglas fir, with the remains of a few icicles and popcorn strings was transported into the cold winter air by four somber faced children…on the 31st of January.