O Christmas Tree(Ed DeRousse) O Christmas tree

I have many pleasant memories of the family Christmas tree.

Thinking back on it now, my Christmas tree experience seems more like something Norman Rockwell would paint. I grew up in the 50s and have since seen many Rockwell paintings, so perhaps my memories are somewhat tainted by that. But on the other hand, I really do have vivid memories of my childhood. I think Norman Rockwell most likely painted things which reflected my life.

Besides my Mom & Dad, there were five children in my childhood home. I had two older sisters, one older brother and one younger sister. We all took part in decorating the Christmas tree, one way or another. It was a special time for me. I knew it meant Santa Claus was on his way, but it also meant a trip to the woods with dad.

I was probably five through ten years of age when we would go Christmas tree shopping. That was a very exclusive experience. Only the men of the house could participate. I felt proud to be included in a man adventure. Dad would take me and my brother out to the country to pick out our tree. I remember walking with him through the forest. Finding our tree wasn’t an easy thing to do because the room in which the tree was going had a tall ceiling, probably twelve to fifteen feet in height. At five years of age it seemed a hundred feet tall.

The tree we brought home had to be just right, of course. If it was too small, the living room would look funny with a little tree. It had to be a large, full tree. But, at that age, obviously, I had no concept of largeness. Even the little trees were big to me.

To check the largeness of a tree, I would extend my hand as far as I could above my head and look up. If I couldn’t touch the tip of the tree, I thought it was big enough, and if I thought it didn’t look puny, I would tell my dad to “Take that one! Take that one!” Dad would usually tell me the one I picked was not the perfect tree we were looking for. He would then reassure me that the perfect tree was still in there. We just had to keep looking.

The weather was always cold and the snow deep. Back in the 50s, that seemed to be more of the norm. Of course, I was a child. I am much older now, so perhaps my memory of that time is a bit gray. Us, older folks tend to remember Southern Illinois winters that way.

Anyway, regardless of the weather, dad would never cut down the first tree I selected. We would trudge on until we, he, found the “perfect” tree. Once identified, it was then and only then, that dad would take his saw, not an ax, and start cutting down the gigantic tree.

The first year of the adventure I asked him why he didn’t cut it down with the ax I knew he had. He told me that the “saw cut” made the bottom fit better in the tree stand. I’m a dad now, so I know what he really meant; I wasn’t much more than a baby and couldn’t be trusted to be anywhere near that ax.

He used a two man saw, which of course I wanted to be on the other end of. Any young boy would consider that a fun adventure, at least until the fun wore off. Dad would let me try, anyway. He knew it wouldn’t take long before I would discover that I couldn’t do it and lose interest.

My bigger brother, who was much older, was able to handle the other end of the saw. He would patiently wait 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 of an opportunity for a whine session from me if he waited until I determined the work was too hard.

Once the cutting began, I tried to aid them by holding the tree up while they cut. I couldn’t understand why they kept telling to me to stand back when I was trying to be helpful. I guess I was afraid of our Christmas tree falling on them and thought myself strong enough to hang on to it while they got out of the way.

I can still remember thinking, 'This must be what it’s like to be a lumberjack.' I would shout “Timmm—berrr!” as the tree fell to the ground. I was Paul Bunyon, and I knew that was what he yelled.

After the tree was down, we would drag it out to the trailer, tie it down, & head back home. How we got that giant of a tree through the house door I don’t remember, but it always came through.

I was probably more of a hindrance than a help. But, Dad and my brother made me feel like I was an important part of the adventure.

Once the tree was in the house, it had to be uprighted. I can’t remember how he did it, but he somehow got the tree to stand up and then we could start the decorating process. That required the use of a tall ladder.
My mom, dad, brother and three sisters got involved with the decorations. It must have been mass congestion in that room with all those people, boxes of decorations, and that massive tree.

Mom took over here. She assigned each of us a special job. Mine was the tinsel. Years later, though, Mom reminded me that the some of the tinsel got clumped up on the limbs and she waited until I went to sleep to straighten them out. Mom suspected a loss of interest on my part. I am sure she was right. Pretending to be Paul Bunyon was definitely more fun than working with the tinsel.

What I liked best, though, 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. I would watch the bubbles travel up and down the tube and try to figure out how those bubbles did that.

Dad had one more job to perform on that day.

Mom reached into her special box and carefully unwrapped her favorite ornament. It was a lighted Angel passed down to her from her family. Dad climbed the ladder one last time, 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. When I looked at the Angel, I knew she was looking to the heavens and perhaps was even guiding Santa Clause to my house.

Everyone pitched in and the tree was eventually deemed ready to celebrate the Christmas holiday. Even at that young age, I was in awe of our tree. Our ceiling was not one hundred feet tall as I believed it was. But that tree, when fully decorated, touched the ceiling. It soared and twinkled well above my small stature.

The last few years we lived in that house a new phenomenon took over. It was the artificial tree. The trips to the Christmas tree forest with my dad were over.

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