Christmas 1901
In the short days before Christmas Eve, I went with Father to pick a Christmas tree from the land down by Coleto Creek. There was a grove of young cedar elm trees he always took his pick from. This year, for the first time, I went with him. On the way, the horse was clopping along the rough dirt road pulling the wagon, he told me of a time he found a lethargic snake in the brush that had wound itself around his boot while he traipsed in the undergrowth down by the water. So, I stepped carefully and frightened at every black branch on the forest floor.
Father leaned against a tree. “You about done? I think you’ve looked at every pine here and found fault.”
“What about that tree over there?” I asked.
“Finally,” he sighed. “It looks pretty good to me, Ruth.”
Father took his hand ax, and with a couple of good whacks, he brought it down. I picked up the top, and Father hauled the tree by the trunk. We dragged it back to the horse, my father took it from my hands and threw it into the wagon with a mighty heave. We spent the rest of the hour cutting and gathering fodder from the forest floor. Mother had made her instructions clear, we were to bring home plenty of branches, pinecones, and greens for her to decorate the house.
That afternoon, we sat at the kitchen table and sang carols. Father took to the pots, raising such a caterwauling that I feared we might disturb the peace of Christmas itself. We formed small, fresh pork suet balls, and rolled them with birdseed to hang on the tree. We strung yards and yards of popcorn, adding bits and pieces of pinecones and bark that we had gathered in the woods earlier that day. Along with the red candles and bows, mother kept from year to year. I feared I ate more popcorn than I strung.
“Ruth, your tummy is gonna be full and you ain’t gonna eat no dinner. We won’t have enough left to string to look good on the tree.”
“Oh, Mother, but it’s so good.”
“Well, I’m not gonna make any more. We have to make do with what we have. Finish chewing and swallow what’s in your mouth.” She handed me a needle with a long thread attached.
She moved to the sink and began to prepare our favorite, beef chips and gravy over mashed potatoes.
After dinner, Father retired to the living room while we finished the cleaning the pots and pans. When we came in, Father was sitting in his rocker admiring the tree in the dim candlelight. It was magical.
Mother’s hand was warm and I couldn’t imagine forgetting this day. Deep down I felt, as if God himself were telling me that Suzanna would be alright. I closed my eyes and thanked him for his blessing on this special eve. I knew I would finally sleep well tonight.