Merry Christmas, Y’all

I was just digging through my file drawer labeled “It’s a Wonder We Survived Childhood,” and found this gem tucked between “Car Seats (None)” and “Electric Toy Iron.”

This folder is labeled “Daddy, Christmas Tree.”

When we lived in Kentucky, this is how we got our Christmas tree every year.

Late in the afternoon on December 20, Daddy would announce that he was ready to take us for our Christmas tree. In other words, he was feeling the spirit. Ahem. We all–Mama, Bucky, Grandmother and Granddaddy Graham, and I–loaded into the car, and into the trunk he threw a saw, some rope, and a loaded shotgun.

Then Daddy drove us down some narrow backroad, probably near Burgin. And he’d pull over and we’d all climb out. It would be getting on toward dusk by now. And he’d make a gap in the rusty barbed-wire fence, and tell us to be careful climbing through it. Because we could get lockjaw and die.

“Whose farm are we on, Daddy?”

“Don’t you worry about that. We’re only taking a couple of trees. Nobody will miss them. Let’s just be quiet though.”

Great, now that we’ve made it through the death fence, we’re probably going to get caught and sent to jail for stealing Christmas trees.

Picking out the cedar trees never took too long. But the sawing did. We all had a turn at pushing and pulling the dull blade through the slender trunks. Then we’d quietly drag the trees back to the fence, where Daddy and Granddaddy would heave them up and over.

Can’t we just climb back into the getaway car and go home?

Nope.

Daddy and Granddaddy would now proceed to shoot down mistletoe from the branches of tall, leafless oaks and maples.

What the heck happened to the “be quiet” part of not getting caught? Why don’t we all just stand around shouting “We’re here! Come arrest us!”

Then, Daddy would tell us to be very careful as we ran to the spot where the mistletoe landed. “Be sure you get all the berries.” He’d say. “They’re very poisonous and can kill a sheep or cow or a farm dog, if they eat them.”

So here were were, Bucky and I, frantically searching for poisonous berries in the dark, waiting for an angry farmer to show up and arrest us for trespassing and stealing his trees and potentially killing his beloved farm dog.

Phew. We’re finally back in the car. Safe ‘n’ sound. No more worries. Getting the feeling back in our frozen fingers. And Daddy would say over his shoulder, as he pulled onto the dark and winding Kentucky back road…

“Okay, you two, your job is to keep an eye on the trees to make sure they don’t come loose and fall off the car.”

Daddy would then drive as fast as he could, rounding curves like a crazy man, while we screamed that the trees were falling off. They never did. But still.

Finally home, he and Mama would get our tree in the stand and feed it with sugar water. Daddy would fix himself a drink, and would sit back and watch us begin to hang candy canes and sugar cookies. One by one, Mama would drape strands of her precious silver and lead tinsel to the tips of the branches. (Remind me to add a folder titled “Lead Tinsel.”)

We’d be just about ready for bed, when Daddy would very solemnly say, “I sure hope there are no birds in that tree that’ll thaw out overnight.”

And people wonder why I have an artificial tree.