Al's Musings

Christmas

I grew up on a dairy farm in Minnesota.

That is, what little growing up I've done.

My ancestral home was a marsh thinly disguised as a farm. The farm included Mule Lake--which was more of a swamp than a lake, the Le Sueur River that ran through the farm and a substantial number of acres that were in a woods consisting entirely of deciduous trees—not a single conifer in the bunch.

The nearest town of any size was Hartland. I'm not sure what constitutes a “town of any size” but Hartland had a population of around 300.

Because our farm had nary an evergreen tree and Hartland sold no Christmas trees, we made a yearly pilgrimage to a tree lot in a city even larger than Hartland. The lots were typically run by a service club, a church organization or a youth group.

One year, the world conspired against my family acquiring a Christmas tree. One catastrophe after another hit. There were water problems in both the house and the barn, a cow required the services of a veterinarian and the Pontiac wouldn't start. It was never a surprise when the car didn't start. It had an engine block when it came to starting--it was like a mechanical writer's block. It would start only when threatened with jumper cables.

We didn't get to the tree lot much before Christmas. We pulled the Pontiac into the first lot we saw. It had only one tree left.

“Let's go somewhere else,” I whined

“No, this is perfect,” my father said. “There's no decision required here. Someday you'll appreciate not having to make decisions.”

My father was always saying things that made no sense until I became the age he was when he said them.

Dad picked up the pitiful pine. Most of its remaining needles took the opportunity to jump to the ground.

“Ain't she a beauty,” said the pine broker with the appearance of a Dickens character.

“No, she isn't,” said Dad. “Is this a tree?”

“What do you want for only $5?” said the man.

“I'll give you $3 for it.” My father was frugal. We were so poor that we didn't have diamonds in our deck of cards because they were too expensive.

“Sold.”

Dad grimaced a little, thinking he should have offered $2, but a deal was a deal.

What a miserable tree it was. There wasn't a bough capable of holding an ornament.

“It's Christmas,” my mother said. “We'll learn to love the tree. We'll throw some tinsel on it. I'll use the kind that the dog won't eat. I remember that present she left under the tree for us last year.”

We found room on the tree for a few ornaments by measuring the placement of the decorations in order to keep the tree from tipping over.

“I don't think the cat will tip this one over. He likes a challenge,” said Dad.

It was a Christmas tradition at our house for the old tomcat to crawl into the tree and send it crashing to the floor between the hours of two and three in the morning. This calamity brought forth a barrage of barks from the canine section of our pet kingdom.

I looked at the meager tree and realized that it wouldn't offer much room for presents. It hadn't been a profitable year—even by our less than lofty standards.

My favorite ornament was a snowflake that had been broken many times and glued back together as best as it could have been. There was no other snowflake identical to that one. While finding the perfect spot to position the snowflake, I saw it.

It was a red feather jammed into the tree near its top. A feather that was once the property of a redbird--a cardinal. Our cardinals came only on Christmas cards. We had no redbirds on our farm in those thrilling days of yesteryear. I know because I looked for them.

The family gathered and wondered how the feather had found itself in its current location. Was it put there by human hand or molted by the bird in the fall? We tried not to think of the bird falling to a predator. However it had arrived, it was part of our Christmas tree.

We placed a shining star at the top of the tree. The feather pointed to it.

A magical thing happened. The imperfections of the tree vanished. Suddenly, it was the most beautiful tree I had ever seen. The feather had turned a forlorn tree into a masterpiece.

I don't remember what I got for Christmas that year, but I remember that feather.

A bird can change the direction of a day and so can a beautiful feather.

I know because I had a cardinal Christmas.

©Al Batt 2008