Past Christmas

The little blue Datsun made its way along the dirt farm road. Tucked inside were a man and his nine year old grandson. They're seeking a Christmas tree, grown on the family farm. The city boy is intrigued. He knows trees from lots, not land. Soon the grandpa stops the car and, taking the youngster's hand, walks into the pasture. Standing in front of a multitude of evergreens, the older man directs the child, "Pick one." With gentle persuasion, the small searcher is guided to a particular specimen. Not grand at all, it's about his size. "Take it out of the ground." he's advised. Suddenly uncertain, the boy looks for reassurance that it is actually possible to remove a tree using only a small body for force. Magically, the tree releases from the ground and is soon safely stored in the trunk of the car. What the young man doesn't know is that his grandfather made a trip to the trees the previous day, chopped down this solitary tree and then stuck it back in its former space to be 'discovered.'

The youngster is part of a family threesome that's flown from the west to spend Christmas 1979 with the mother's parents. Decorating the tree requires little time but creates a special legacy that touches many future holidays. A rakish red star, blinking intermittingly, sits atop the boughs. Bubble lights are wrapped ever so carefully around fragile limbs. Four adults witness the process, clearly aware of the magical moments, seen through the eyes of a child.




Three decades plus have passed since that country Christmas. The forest has other owners, quite unaware of magic trees. The flashing star survives, albeit a bit bedraggled. The boy's younger sister, born four years later, proudly proclaims that the star is the ugliest thing she's ever seen. She is non-accepting of the idea that sometimes ugly can also be cute. The story makes the star a star.




The star twinkled from the western family's tree for more than twenty years. Currently it's on temporary hiatus, nestled deep in a box of decorations. With no children living in the house for the last decade, the traditional tree has been replaced by simple branches which cover the mantle and other surfaces. Aging parents, now nearly as old as the boy's grandfather was in 1979, are content with less time-intensive embellishments.

Bubble lights languish in boxes. When plugged into sockets, their liquid still flows. In their reflection, memories of the magical tree are rekindled.






A menagerie covers the hearth, supplemented by several Santas, a snowman, and a gingerbread man chef. Each toy is festively attired. Many will sing or wiggle if a button is pushed. All children, and some playful adults, delight in the music.




In another room, two youth chairs from the farmhouse provide seats for larger animals. Mother bought the unfinished rocker more than fifty years ago. A man came to the house with his truck piled high with such furniture. He traveled lonely roads, selling his wares. Crudely constructed and free from stain or varnish, these simple household goods were utilitarian, not decorative. This rocker is treasured as if it were museum quality.






Traditions are created. Some by accident, others are inherited. Generally there is a bit of grousing when parents, usually the mother of the family, insist that holidays adhere to repeated rituals. Though a few grumbles accompany each celebration, if there's an attempt to alter some part of the family's holiday customs, the dissent is even more vociferous. One must not trifle with tradition except for a few tweaks.

At this house, a droll practice enlivens the present-wrapping process. The tags are far from ordinary. Each one contains a clue as to the recipient of the gift and the contents of the package. Deciphering the clue's meaning is challenging and often produces unrestrained laughter. Henry, the clue creator, generally stumps the giftee. In recent years, the newest member of the family, our son-in-law, has proven an apt untangler of coded clues. Very impressive. This special ability may originate in his own family's penchant for games.

Stockings, as yet still empty, hang from the mantle. Caitlin's monogrammed version predates her. It was ordered the Christmas before her birth.



There's never a Christmas breakfast without French toast. The same brown bowl is used each year to mix the eggs, milk and cinnamon. Challah soaks the liquid precisely and all health admonitions are suspended. Lately, cooking has been ceded to the Oregon visitors for whom breakfast is the very best meal anytime.

The table's been set for several weeks. Poinsettias, appliqued so prettily, swirl across the tablecloth. Place cards identify each guest. Napkins await unfurling. There'll be no holiday dinner this year. Is the scene too grand for French toast? Not at all.




This holiday, Caitlin and Bobby will arrive quite tired after a day at Knotts Berry Farm. Summer like weather, 40 degrees warmer than where they live, will be embraced immediately. The 28th is reserved for gifts and the traditional breakfast. We'll video the proceedings and take more than enough photos.

Caitlin will surely smile when she notices that a tradition she created continues. Lying in the middle of the front row of holiday animals, one small reindeer is turned upside down. Is it past Christmas already?