I was born to a family of savers and recyclers. Among the many boxes in my parents’ attic are several that contain my mother’s old sewing patterns, clearly marked and dated, from the 1960s on. When Mama decided that my daughter needed her own Red Riding Hood robe like the one I had worn in the Christmas photo from 1965, she used the same pattern. D loved her version and wore it for years. Here she is at age three in 2002: another little blonde girl in red, happy to be visiting her grandparents.
It was only after they were married that my parents exchanged money for a Christmas tree. As my mother remembers, they bought the first tree for their new house in Lexington from an old man who sold cedars he cut himself. The photo below dates from 1964 and shows a full but rather ungainly cedar that was the standard of my early childhood.
On Christmas morning in our house in Lexington, my hair still in rag-tied curls, I’m happily discovering Santa’s gifts of a “Debbie Eve” baby doll and a cradle. We would head to my grandparents’ later in the day, for Christmas dinner.
Christmas Eve, 1965, with Mama in the living room of my grandparents’ house. Our smiles appear to be heartfelt. We were right where we wanted to be.
Christmas morning, 1965, at my grandparents’ house.
I’m in the new red corduroy housecoat Mama made me, holding my new doll Amy. In my cloudy half-memories, this was a perfect Christmas day.
We had planned to get our Christmas tree last Sunday after church. (We put up several artificial trees in early December, but wait until mid-month on the real tree.) At breakfast that morning, our daughter recounted the dream she’d been having upon waking: H and I had decided to surprise her by going out for the tree while she slept. By the time she came downstairs, we had it set up and decorated. It was not a good-looking tree. D tried to hide her disappointment in not being included in the tree outing, in our choice of an unfortunate tree, in its awkward placement, and in our bad decorating. When she reached out to touch it, the trunk collapsed in on itself like a patio umbrella stand. It had been tall and ugly; now it was short and ugly. Once fully awake, she was greatly relieved to find no tree at all in the living room.
Her dream reminded me of some old photos from my childhood featuring particularly unsightly Christmas trees. D had seen them before, but had forgotten, so the impact was strong.
These photos have mystified me for years. They were taken in our first house in Atlanta, a little rental ranch in the Montreal Woods section of Tucker. When I think back on the Christmases of my childhood and teen years, I set them in the home we bought two years later, in the Morningside area. As I remember, it was graced annually with a nicely shaped, well-decorated tree, usually a Frazier fir. Why, then, were these trees, from the more distant past, so very ugly?
Upon recent re-examination of the photos, I assumed they showed two different, but equally unattractive trees, from consecutive years. (Dates on our family photos are often missing or erroneous.) The first captures a hulking, bushy tree. I look up at it with awed trepidation. In the second, I sit forlornly beside a presence that resembles a raggedy, monstrous figure, small-waisted and large-hipped. The broad expanse of blank white wall adds a further degree of bleakness.
Then I noticed that in another picture of the monster tree, I’m wearing the same black dress and blue barrettes as in the bushy-tree photo. Could we really have had two such sad-looking trees in the same year? Was the first so terrible that we took it down and swapped it for another, late in the season, when the pickings were even slimmer? Maybe the first one kept falling over? (I have vague memories of toppling trees on rickety stands.) Or maybe the needles dried out within a few days? I phoned my parents to see if they could offer any clarification. They didn’t think we ever had two trees in a single year. They did remember that we had some less than stellar trees in the Tucker years.
It had to be the same tree, one with the added distinction of looking bad in various ways depending upon the angle from which it was viewed. The same ornaments appeared in similar spots; the same aluminum-foil tinsel was draped haphazardly over long-needled branches. In the photo above, Mama and I seem to be trying to put on a good show, to pretend gamely that we’re perfectly content in the presence of this strange tree. Here we are, happy and well-dressed, holding these gifts expectantly. We could be a family on a Christmas card.
Mama’s memory of that tree was as hazy as mine, but other details of that season she recalled vividly. Ever since she and my father had married, they had spent Christmas with her family in central Kentucky. My birth hadn’t changed this; Christmas would find us in the farmhouse with my grandparents, surrounded by aunts and uncles. But that year, after our move to Georgia, we weren’t traveling. We could have our own merry Christmas, just the three of us. We would. We’d do it.
We tried. In the photo above, we continue with the Christmas card images. Mama reads ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, and I look giddy and act like I’ve never heard it before. We’re both wearing new pink flannel PJs. Our long hair is neatly brushed. Beneath our fake smiles, you can see us grimly willing those visions of sugarplums to dance, dance, dance.
It didn’t work out. There were no sugarplums. We missed our family. We missed the big old house. We missed our tradition. It just didn’t seem like Christmas. As a young child, I tended to carry an outsized burden of multiple anxieties, for no reason that could be explained. That Christmas Eve, I was sad and inconsolable. I couldn’t stop crying. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. Mama, loving and patient, sat with me, late into the night, holding my hand and offering assurance. She had grown accustomed to this process, but usually it wasn’t quite so painful or long-lasting.
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Early the next morning, we packed up the gifts, the wrapped ones and those from Santa, bundled ourselves into the enormous blue Dodge station wagon, and headed to Kentucky. The time would come, soon enough, for starting a new tradition. That year, 1966, was simply not the time.
No theological implications here. Just a dog too sleepy to mind being wrapped in synthetic greenery. My daughter has always found it disappointing that Kiko refuses to cooperate and wear the typical doggie costume. No devil horns for him at Halloween, no reindeer headband for the Christmas photo. But this year, as we were hanging the stair garland, he lacked the energy to care, or perhaps to protest, when she decided to adorn him, as well.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
This December, we hung a big wreath on the craggy maple stump in front of our house. It seemed like an interesting, if unexpected, spot for a wreath. And by decorating the tree, we could send a message to those who might see it as a business opportunity, as well as to those who think the stump is unsightly and wonder why we leave it standing. The wreath says, We love this old tree trunk, and we’re letting nature take its course.
Then I thought a little more about it, and the pairing struck me as even more appropriate in its juxtaposition of life and death. The stump is the opposite of the traditional evergreen Christmas tree. Firs and spruces, retaining the appearance of vitality through the winter, get the privilege of being cut down, hauled into our homes, strung with lights and ornaments, and left to wither and die. It’s tough work, being a symbol. Our maple, though, would be in no such danger. If intact, it would be gray-brown and leafless by now, like its neighbors in our yard. But of course, it’s a stump, a snag, and already dead. Yet it harbors vast, unseen colonies of creatures that go about the business of breaking down lifeless material. It won’t be long before nature’s course is run. The stump may not be here next year; its center is soft. All the more reason to decorate it this year.
My husband and daughter hung the wreath one weekend afternoon, as I was napping, trying to get over a persistent cold. When I trudged out to the road to see their handiwork, a new insight hit me.
I like to think that God works with us for good, despite ourselves, despite our selfish intentions and our vanity. I initially wanted to decorate the tree because I thought it would look pretty, if a bit odd. In truth, it was a way of declaring a certain pride in being different, in having the ability to see beauty where others see ugliness.
But once up, the wreath reminded me of a greater truth, of the essence of my Christian faith. Out of death comes new, transformed life. How better to say it than in the words of John 3: 16:
For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.
And then the snow settled beautifully on the wreath and the tree, on the green and the gray, on the quick and the dead, like a blessing from above.
We awoke yesterday to the beginnings of the first snow of the season, falling lightly but steadily, as predicted. By the afternoon, tiny ice pellets had muscled out the snowflakes. The emergency announcement of Monday’s closed schools arrived early enough for our daughter and her friends to rejoice heartily and take advantage of the snow day before the snow day.
This morning, the sliding, swishing, crashing sound of falling branches served as our alarm. I looked out to see a substantial chunk of one of our silver maples settling in across the driveway. The white pines were bowed down, heavy with ice. Tree branches and foliage had been artfully and glisteningly encased in silvery elegance. It was beautiful, but treacherous, as tree limbs continued to crack and fall all around.
Each pine needle received its own individual ice casing.
The white pines took on a hulking, menacing aspect.
Our iron fence got a frosty make-over.
Dogwood branches resemble frozen feathers.
Party lights and red maple branches.
Ribs of ice, frozen on this branch at a striking angle.
Strands of an ice-covered spider’s web.
Oak leaves, tough and persistent, appear uninclined
to give in to the pull of their ice jackets.
The fallen maple branches, ever-prepared, were already in bud.
During visits to my parents in Atlanta, my daughter and I enjoyed dropping in to talk with Doug, who never failed to entertain; his love of life remained robust no matter his level of discomfort. If we lingered a while, we would usually be graced by Elvis’s regal presence. He was reserved around all but immediate family, not one to dole out affection indiscriminately. Elvis was especially wary of children. As Doug advised D when she was a preschooler, Elvis didn’t appreciate loud voices and sudden movements. She took this advice to heart, and it often paid off. Elvis would first peer in from the hall, sizing us up with his cool yellow cat eyes. Sometimes he decided we weren’t worth his time. With a flip of his tail, he’d disappear. Other times he gave us the OK and approached tentatively, gracefully, on tip-toe. D was delighted when he decided to settle in beside her, allowing her to stroke his abundantly fluffy black fur and hear his deep, growly purr.
Doug’s wife told my mother that although the house feels oddly empty, now that Elvis is no longer there, she has much to be thankful for. She is grateful that Elvis was with Doug until the end, and that he stayed a while afterwards to offer solace as she began the process of adjusting to life without her husband. Anyone lucky enough to be helped through a difficult time by the precious comfort of a pet must know the feeling.
Rest in peace, dear Elvis. It was our good fortune to know you.
Elvis, ignoring a cat toy, 2013.
And beautifying the Christmas tree, 2012.
Happy Thanksgiving!
The last weeks of the play and its preparation gave me a taste of what I may expect when D goes away to college. It sounds callous and un-motherly, but I hadn’t really expected to miss my daughter. After all, things have changed since she was in elementary school, when I’d meet her at the bus stop and she’d be truly happy, even excited, to see me. In the afternoons, we’d work on some craft project, or take a bike ride, or play monkey-in-the-middle with Kiko and a tennis ball. She’d talk freely about her day. She’d do her homework at the kitchen table while I prepared dinner and was on hand to help if she ran into difficulties. Back then, I usually knew the answers. These days, I’ve learned to give her space and time to decompress. I try not to come on too strong with expectant inquiries. Don’t hover, I remind myself. Don’t be too needy. Remember that my attempts at humor are not appreciated as they once were. Avert my eyes as her phone lights up every few seconds with an incoming text. Refrain from commenting on the identity of the texter, should I happen to see.
With D gone for such long stretches, there would be less time for negotiating this tricky obstacle course, of showing adequate, but not excessive concern. Less time to demonstrate that I’m neither prying nor inattentive. Certainly, I thought, I’d be more efficient. I would do more writing. Maybe I’d finish the paintings of tree trunks and tangled vines that I began in the summer. I’d be more thorough at cleaning the house. Maybe even arrange to have lunch with a friend or two.
But I wasn’t particularly productive or focused. I found my daughter’s absence more unsettling than I had anticipated. Especially in the late, dark afternoons, it was odd to realize that she wasn’t hiding out in another room, watching How I Met Your Mother on her phone instead of buckling down to her homework. I was uninspired. No in-depth blog topic beckoned me. I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for painting. I did catch up on laundry, but that’s about all.
Kiko was restless. He quite obviously missed his sister. Nearly every time I began to concentrate at my desk, I’d feel him pawing impatiently at my leg, nipping at my knee, or hear him preparing to chew on a stack of papers. He’d bring in a rawhide and drop it at my feet. When I’d toss it, he’d look at me questioningly. Is this all there is? Is it just you and me now, and this singularly unsatisfying rawhide? I’d search out his much-loved Foxy, squeak it, throw it, shake it. Surely Foxy would bring him out of his doldrums. Typically, though, it did not. He’d stand there, unbudging, staring at me.
So we’d go somewhere. We’d walk, or I’d think up an errand, one on which Kiko could accompany me. From there, we’d walk in a less familiar area, one that would hold his attention fully with its many compelling smells. It seemed that the colder, windier and generally more miserable the day, the more time we’d spend wandering. But when we returned, Kiko could settle down for a while. I’d find myself less at loose ends. There was no doubt about it. We both missed our girl.
Now we’re adjusting to home life together again. Kiko was instantly reacclimated. Now that he knows he can expect D home in the afternoons, he’s content to spend his days sleeping on the playroom sofa. It’s been less of a snap for me. I’d gotten out of practice, had forgotten some of the finer points of my balancing act as the mother of a teenager. But I’m getting back into the swing. Most of the time, and always when it’s cold and dark, I’m glad that my daughter is back under our roof. I’m trying not to get too accustomed to her being here, because before long, another activity is bound to take her away again. Maybe next time I’ll be better prepared for her absence. But I doubt it.
After a performance of Romeo & Juliet, D got a warm hug from a friend. Often, when I glance at this dear little girl, with her pale blonde hair and bangs, I think, for an instant, that I’m seeing my own daughter, a child again.
Just this one last tree post for the season, I promise.
A few days ago, as I was standing absent-mindedly looking out a front window, I realized, with surprise, that I was gazing at a vision of shimmering gold. At first I thought it was my imagination, or a shift in my attitude. Maybe a trick of the bright light? But it’s not. Even when my mind-set is less than sunny, and the day is, as well, it’s apparent that the leaves of our craggy silver maples have clearly turned yellow-gold. Until now, every fall in the thirteen years we’ve lived in our house, I’ve been a little disappointed in our maples’ lack of leaf color. I’ve always said that they don’t really change color; their silvery green fades a bit and they fall. Once on the ground, they crinkle up and turn light brown. That’s the way I remember it, at least.
It makes me wonder. Is this autumn really so different? It does seem that the colors have been especially vibrant. As a friend from church put it, “God has used a gloriously bright paintbrush this year.” She has seen many a change of season; she’s ninety-nine, and still going strong.
Or was there a golden transformation, right in my front yard, in some years past, and I completely missed it? Because I didn’t expect it, I didn’t notice when it appeared? Is it akin to overlooking a new hair style or recently grown beard of an old friend because we’re so familiar with a face that we stop seeing it? I don’t know. I hope I haven’t missed this golden spectacle before. But one thing is certain: I will appreciate it now, while it lasts, and I won’t forget to look for it this time next year.
My friend is right: God’s skills as a painter have been
everywhere in evidence this fall.
