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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Family
- Published: 12/08/2016
The Perfect Christmas Tree
Born 1950, M, from Sparta, il, United StatesWhat do the perfect Christmas Tree, a family of seven, and Santa, have in common? If you guessed sharing and patience, you would be right.
I grew up in a family of seven: Mom, Dad, three sisters and one brother. In a family that size, certainly life is full of sharing. Patience becomes a virtue, especially as a youngster. My sixth Christmas stands out as extra special. That was the year I most remember an ample dosage in both.
For the Russey family, the Christmas season did not officially begin until the search for the perfect tree commenced. Finding that proper tree was the responsibility of the three men in the family. Dad said our tree could not be found at a tree farm. He said it had to come from a local woods where the wild pine trees grew. About two weeks before Christmas, dad took me for the first time with my brother out to the country to pick out our tree.
That year the weather was cold and the snow deep. For a six year old, trudging through high snow could have been a problem. But I didn't care. I was going to chop down a tree. O! What fun that was going to be!
First, though, we had to find the perfect tree. It had to be a big one. We had tall ceilings so it had to be about fifteen feet tall. My method for checking the height of a tree was to stand under it, extend my hand as far as I could above my head and look up. If I couldn't touch or see the top of the tree, I thought it was tall enough. Then if I couldn't get my arms wrapped around the tree, I deemed it perfect. I shouted out to dad, "Take this one! Take this one!" I'm sure I did that several times. And each time Dad would tell me the one I picked was a good one but not quite the perfect tree. He'd reassure me, It's still out there. We just have to keep looking. We would trudge on until we, he, found the perfect tree.
No scrawny tree was going in our house. The tree we brought home had to be just right. If it was too small and skinny, the large living room would look funny. So it had to be a large, full tree.
Dad's tool of choice for cutting down the tree was a two man saw, which of course I wanted to be on the other end of. Dad would let me try. He knew it wouldn't take long before I would discover that I couldn't do it and lose interest.
My brother, who is eight years older than me, waited patiently until I was satisfied that I couldn't do it and plead for him to take over. He knew, I'm sure, that there would be less whining from me if he waited until I determined the work was too hard. Once I relinquished the saw to my brother, the real cutting began.
My new job, I determined, was to aid them by holding the tree up as they cut. I needed to be next to the tree just in case it fell when they weren't ready. In my mind I probably thought myself strong enough to hold up the falling tree as they scampered out from underneath it so I could safely place it on the ground. I couldn't understand, though, why they kept telling to me to stand back when I was trying to be so helpful.
It didn't take long for my Dad and brother to saw the tree down. We drug it to the trailer through the deep snow, tied it down, and headed back home. In reality, I was probably more of a hindrance than a help. Dad and my brother made me feel like I was an important part of the adventure, though.
The tree we brought home was wider than the door. We had to pull our perfect tree through the door frame, an exercise which lasted several minutes. I could tell Mom didn't much care for all the pine needles left on the floor. She was the one sweeping them up while we struggled to stand the tree up in its place of honor.
Once the tree was secure, mom took over. She assigned each of us a special job. Mine was the tinsel.
What I liked best about our tree were the bubble lights. There were several strands of them. I know we had twinkle lights, but watching the bubbles was special to me. I remember staying behind in the room after everyone else left and watching the bubbles travel up and down the tube trying to figure out how those bubbles did that.
After all the decorations were put on the tree, Dad had one more job. Mom reached into her special box and carefully unwrapped her favorite ornament. It was the lighted Angel passed down to her from her family. Dad climbed the ladder, gathered up a few of the uppermost limbs, and gently stuffed them into the hole in her bottom. Mom was watching, so dad had to be careful. Once Mom approved of its placement, she proclaimed the tree was done.
For as long as I could remember my family had a tradition on Christmas Eve night. Each member of the family would pick out one gift from under the Christmas tree, from our parents, and open it. This routine was particularly tough on the youngest of the brood, because the oldest (Dad) opened first while the rest of us waited. And no other gifts were opened until all had the opportunity to experience that gift.
There were seven gifts to be opened. Mine was number six. Mom and Dad always opened each other's with no ceremony. My two older sisters, fortunately, followed in the same manner.
Not my older brother, though. No way!
This was the very same thoughtful, considerate, brother I shared an adventure with in the woods two weeks earlier. For him, opening that Christmas Eve present was all about him. The presentation ceremony was just as important to him as what he unwrapped. Everyone shared in his experience. Each and every one of us, separately. That, of course, added to the anxiousness for me and my younger sister.
The family tradition of opening one gift from our parents on Christmas Eve night was changed, that year, because of me.
That was the year I believed it was no longer cool to believe in Santa Claus. I don't think I told Mom and Dad I no longer believed, but I must have thrown out plenty of hints. Like bragging to my older brother and sisters I knew those presents I was getting this year with Santa's name on it were actually from Mom and Dad. And I'm sure Mom and Dad overheard me trying to convince my younger sister that Santa didn't really exist. I thought I was grown up and was ready to announce it to the world.
There was a problem with my thinking, though. Mom was not ready for me to give up on believing in Santa's existence. So she and Dad concocted a plan which changed the Christmas Eve tradition.
Mom and Dad, just like the previous years, had all the presents neatly placed under the tree. No one expected to see gifts from Santa Claus. They were to come later that night. But at the very top of that pile of gifts was a present with my name on it from Santa. No one else in the family had a gift from Santa. I know. I checked to make sure.
You Bet! I was curious.
It would be a while, though, before I would find out why I was the only family member with a gift from Santa. Five other people had to open their gifts before me, including my brother who seemed to take an extra-long time sharing his present.
When my turn finally came, Mom told me that Santa Claus had directed them to have me open his instead of one of theirs. "Santa brought this especially for you to open tonight" Mom told me. "It's OK, Go ahead and open it."
I know Santa Claus isn't real, I thought. This is really from Mom and Dad but I'm not going to tell them I know. They might not let me open it if I do.
I know I was a little confused. I was sure Santa Claus didn't exist. Mom and Dad had insisted that present wasn't from them. Instead, it was Santa Claus who left that present for me to open on Christmas Eve night. I sure wondered why?
I was pretty sure I was getting an erector set for Christmas. That present from Santa was about the right size. Believing it to be an erector set, I removed the wrapping to find a plain cardboard box. I expected to find pictures on that box of stuff I could make with the erector set. Undaunted, I opened the plain box up to find...NOTHING.
Mom looked me in the eyes and asked, "Do you believe in Santa Claus? He heard that you no longer believe in him. He told me the rest of your gifts from him would be a box of air unless you believed in Santa Claus."
Even at the age of six I was smart enough to know that Mom and Dad had already wrapped gifts from Santa and there would be presents from him under the tree on Christmas Day. But just in case I was wrong, you better believe I told Mom that I believed. I did wonder, though, how those Christmas day gifts from Santa with my name on them would have been explained away if I had said no.
The next year, at age seven, it was OK to admit to Mom and Dad, but not my younger sister, that I was a non-believer. She had to wait a couple more years.
Mom told me several years later that 'box of air' thing was her idea. The three older siblings apparently had waited longer than I did to tell her they no longer believed. I guess she thought I was growing up too fast.
On my seventh Christmas, my Dad, Brother, and I once again went searching for the tree and brought it home. I still found gifts from Santa under the tree. But Mom and Dad knew I knew who really was responsible for those presents under the perfect Christmas Tree. They, obviously, were ready to accept my nonbelief.
Santa Claus is now leaving his gifts at my house for my grandchildren under an artificial Perfect Christmas Tree. And that is perfectly OK with them and me.
The Perfect Christmas Tree(Ed DeRousse)
What do the perfect Christmas Tree, a family of seven, and Santa, have in common? If you guessed sharing and patience, you would be right.
I grew up in a family of seven: Mom, Dad, three sisters and one brother. In a family that size, certainly life is full of sharing. Patience becomes a virtue, especially as a youngster. My sixth Christmas stands out as extra special. That was the year I most remember an ample dosage in both.
For the Russey family, the Christmas season did not officially begin until the search for the perfect tree commenced. Finding that proper tree was the responsibility of the three men in the family. Dad said our tree could not be found at a tree farm. He said it had to come from a local woods where the wild pine trees grew. About two weeks before Christmas, dad took me for the first time with my brother out to the country to pick out our tree.
That year the weather was cold and the snow deep. For a six year old, trudging through high snow could have been a problem. But I didn't care. I was going to chop down a tree. O! What fun that was going to be!
First, though, we had to find the perfect tree. It had to be a big one. We had tall ceilings so it had to be about fifteen feet tall. My method for checking the height of a tree was to stand under it, extend my hand as far as I could above my head and look up. If I couldn't touch or see the top of the tree, I thought it was tall enough. Then if I couldn't get my arms wrapped around the tree, I deemed it perfect. I shouted out to dad, "Take this one! Take this one!" I'm sure I did that several times. And each time Dad would tell me the one I picked was a good one but not quite the perfect tree. He'd reassure me, It's still out there. We just have to keep looking. We would trudge on until we, he, found the perfect tree.
No scrawny tree was going in our house. The tree we brought home had to be just right. If it was too small and skinny, the large living room would look funny. So it had to be a large, full tree.
Dad's tool of choice for cutting down the tree was a two man saw, which of course I wanted to be on the other end of. Dad would let me try. He knew it wouldn't take long before I would discover that I couldn't do it and lose interest.
My brother, who is eight years older than me, waited patiently until I was satisfied that I couldn't do it and plead for him to take over. He knew, I'm sure, that there would be less whining from me if he waited until I determined the work was too hard. Once I relinquished the saw to my brother, the real cutting began.
My new job, I determined, was to aid them by holding the tree up as they cut. I needed to be next to the tree just in case it fell when they weren't ready. In my mind I probably thought myself strong enough to hold up the falling tree as they scampered out from underneath it so I could safely place it on the ground. I couldn't understand, though, why they kept telling to me to stand back when I was trying to be so helpful.
It didn't take long for my Dad and brother to saw the tree down. We drug it to the trailer through the deep snow, tied it down, and headed back home. In reality, I was probably more of a hindrance than a help. Dad and my brother made me feel like I was an important part of the adventure, though.
The tree we brought home was wider than the door. We had to pull our perfect tree through the door frame, an exercise which lasted several minutes. I could tell Mom didn't much care for all the pine needles left on the floor. She was the one sweeping them up while we struggled to stand the tree up in its place of honor.
Once the tree was secure, mom took over. She assigned each of us a special job. Mine was the tinsel.
What I liked best about our tree were the bubble lights. There were several strands of them. I know we had twinkle lights, but watching the bubbles was special to me. I remember staying behind in the room after everyone else left and watching the bubbles travel up and down the tube trying to figure out how those bubbles did that.
After all the decorations were put on the tree, Dad had one more job. Mom reached into her special box and carefully unwrapped her favorite ornament. It was the lighted Angel passed down to her from her family. Dad climbed the ladder, gathered up a few of the uppermost limbs, and gently stuffed them into the hole in her bottom. Mom was watching, so dad had to be careful. Once Mom approved of its placement, she proclaimed the tree was done.
For as long as I could remember my family had a tradition on Christmas Eve night. Each member of the family would pick out one gift from under the Christmas tree, from our parents, and open it. This routine was particularly tough on the youngest of the brood, because the oldest (Dad) opened first while the rest of us waited. And no other gifts were opened until all had the opportunity to experience that gift.
There were seven gifts to be opened. Mine was number six. Mom and Dad always opened each other's with no ceremony. My two older sisters, fortunately, followed in the same manner.
Not my older brother, though. No way!
This was the very same thoughtful, considerate, brother I shared an adventure with in the woods two weeks earlier. For him, opening that Christmas Eve present was all about him. The presentation ceremony was just as important to him as what he unwrapped. Everyone shared in his experience. Each and every one of us, separately. That, of course, added to the anxiousness for me and my younger sister.
The family tradition of opening one gift from our parents on Christmas Eve night was changed, that year, because of me.
That was the year I believed it was no longer cool to believe in Santa Claus. I don't think I told Mom and Dad I no longer believed, but I must have thrown out plenty of hints. Like bragging to my older brother and sisters I knew those presents I was getting this year with Santa's name on it were actually from Mom and Dad. And I'm sure Mom and Dad overheard me trying to convince my younger sister that Santa didn't really exist. I thought I was grown up and was ready to announce it to the world.
There was a problem with my thinking, though. Mom was not ready for me to give up on believing in Santa's existence. So she and Dad concocted a plan which changed the Christmas Eve tradition.
Mom and Dad, just like the previous years, had all the presents neatly placed under the tree. No one expected to see gifts from Santa Claus. They were to come later that night. But at the very top of that pile of gifts was a present with my name on it from Santa. No one else in the family had a gift from Santa. I know. I checked to make sure.
You Bet! I was curious.
It would be a while, though, before I would find out why I was the only family member with a gift from Santa. Five other people had to open their gifts before me, including my brother who seemed to take an extra-long time sharing his present.
When my turn finally came, Mom told me that Santa Claus had directed them to have me open his instead of one of theirs. "Santa brought this especially for you to open tonight" Mom told me. "It's OK, Go ahead and open it."
I know Santa Claus isn't real, I thought. This is really from Mom and Dad but I'm not going to tell them I know. They might not let me open it if I do.
I know I was a little confused. I was sure Santa Claus didn't exist. Mom and Dad had insisted that present wasn't from them. Instead, it was Santa Claus who left that present for me to open on Christmas Eve night. I sure wondered why?
I was pretty sure I was getting an erector set for Christmas. That present from Santa was about the right size. Believing it to be an erector set, I removed the wrapping to find a plain cardboard box. I expected to find pictures on that box of stuff I could make with the erector set. Undaunted, I opened the plain box up to find...NOTHING.
Mom looked me in the eyes and asked, "Do you believe in Santa Claus? He heard that you no longer believe in him. He told me the rest of your gifts from him would be a box of air unless you believed in Santa Claus."
Even at the age of six I was smart enough to know that Mom and Dad had already wrapped gifts from Santa and there would be presents from him under the tree on Christmas Day. But just in case I was wrong, you better believe I told Mom that I believed. I did wonder, though, how those Christmas day gifts from Santa with my name on them would have been explained away if I had said no.
The next year, at age seven, it was OK to admit to Mom and Dad, but not my younger sister, that I was a non-believer. She had to wait a couple more years.
Mom told me several years later that 'box of air' thing was her idea. The three older siblings apparently had waited longer than I did to tell her they no longer believed. I guess she thought I was growing up too fast.
On my seventh Christmas, my Dad, Brother, and I once again went searching for the tree and brought it home. I still found gifts from Santa under the tree. But Mom and Dad knew I knew who really was responsible for those presents under the perfect Christmas Tree. They, obviously, were ready to accept my nonbelief.
Santa Claus is now leaving his gifts at my house for my grandchildren under an artificial Perfect Christmas Tree. And that is perfectly OK with them and me.
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