Memories of Christmas past make present meaningful

Twinkling lights, inflatable snow globes and electric reindeer are delightful, but the centerpiece for most folks’ holiday decorations is the Christmas tree. When were newly married, Derek and I shopped for our tree at local lots or grocery stores, but after the children arrived something changed.

“It isn’t very festive to buy your Christmas tree at Fred Meyer,” Derek opined. He looked out the window at the small boys playing in the snow. “I think they need to see trees in their natural environment.

“You want to take my babies to the national forest?” I gasped.

“No,” he replied. “We’re going to a tree farm and chop down our own.”

I’m a city girl. I don’t do nature things. As far as I’m concerned, Christmas trees magically appear each year in vacant lots and grocery stores. “Good luck with that,” I said. And so a tradition was born. Each year Derek and the boys drive to Green Bluff and choose a tree, while I stay home and make hot cocoa and unearth the ornaments. Like the start of all traditions that first experience was memorable.

While I waited for my woodsmen to return, that year, I sorted through our decorations and realized how much our lives had changed since the birth of our sons. Fragile Victorian glass had been replaced by cardboard bells with children’s handprints on them. I now had ornaments made of pinecones and popsicle sticks. Toilet-paper tube angels nestled among stale marshmallow snowmen. Ornaments made of plastic beads and string lay twisted in a heap at the bottom of the box next to the Play-Doh replica of the Holy Family.

Soon, four small boys with snow-soaked clothing trooped through the living room to find me. “Come see!” they squealed in unison. “We found the perfect tree!”

I followed them to the front yard and there it stood, a vision of piney splendor. Beautifully symmetrical, towering in all its green glory, smelling of the forest and Christmas. My husband, seeing the delight on my face, beamed with pride. “Pretty good, huh?”

“It’s wonderful!” I sighed. “Well done men, bring it inside!” And they tried. They really tried, but when they hauled it up to the door, we realized a little trimming was needed before we could fit it in the house. “I thought they trimmed them for you at the tree farm, honey.” I said. “They did,” he replied. “They cut off at least three feet!”

“Just how tall is this tree, anyway?” I asked. It took all four boys and myself to stand the tree upright next to my husband. Derek is 6-feet, 2-inches tall. The tree towered above him by at least 3 feet.

“Gee, it didn’t seem so tall out there surrounded by the other trees,” he murmured.

I left him to look for his axe and herded the rest of the clan inside for cocoa. We watched “A Christmas Story,” while we waited to decorate the tree. Then we frosted cutout cookies. Still no dad and no tree. I opened the back door to check on the progress of the tree trimming. My husband is not a swearing man, but the words I heard pouring from his mouth were not cheery holiday greetings. I quickly shut the door.

We watched “Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer.” The boys fell asleep on the floor and, I went out to see if I could help. The ax was dull, the tree trunk thick and my husband very cranky. I don’t know many swear words, so I returned indoors and tucked the kids in for the night.

At midnight the tree was finally small enough to fit in through the back door. Our yard was littered with evergreen debris. The beautiful symmetry of a 10-foot tree didn’t translate to the remaining 5-foot shrub. My husband fell into bed exhausted, pine tar embedded in his fingernails.

That was several years ago, and over time Derek and the boys have perfected their tree-selection skills. Yet as the boys grew, some of the magic was lost. First, our oldest got a job and couldn’t get away for the tree hunt. Then our second and third born boys turned into busy teenagers with their own schedules to accommodate.

Soon, it will be just Derek and Sam choosing the tree, and eventually we’ll buy an artificial one complete with lights you don’t have to spend hours untangling. We’ll hang the dilapidated marshmallow snowman and the crumbling Play-Doh wreaths, and remember other Christmases when chubby fingers struggled to reach the branches and small voices clamored to put the angel on top of the tree.

But this Christmas I’m going to enjoy the gangly, deep-voiced young men who gather ’round the tree and say, “Hey! I remember when I made this in third grade!” I’m going to feed them cookies and make them cocoa and revel in their noisy presence. I know Christmas past, I’ve glimpsed Christmas future, and it makes me value Christmas present all the more.