The first couple or three Christmases we were married, we made a big deal of going to one of our local tree farms to select just the tree for us. They were beautiful and took up a good portion of our narrow living room. They smelled of winter and joy and peace on earth all wrapped up in sparkling lights and tulle ribbon and ornaments that came from my single apartment days mixed in with the ones I bought as a wife and soon to be mom.
Then, more babies came, and they started to crawl and climb and break things, despite their oh-so-sweet natures and our best childproofing efforts. The year I had an almost 3-year old, a 21 month old, and a newborn, I convinced myself a tree was out of the question. I was doing good to keep the doors on their hinges--how could my sanity survive putting a Christmas tree in the same house with those people? So, Christmas neared, and our home had no tree. And I wished that it did and lamented my decision. So, that man I married brought home our first miracle tree. Not from a tree farm or Walmart or Lowe's, not trimmed or shaped or trained. And it was ugly, but as I looked at it skeptically, he assured me it would be just fine. So, trimming a branch here and sticking it in somewhere else, all around, little by little, he shaped and readjusted, and that tree became our beautiful Christmas tree. We jokingly referred to it as our miracle tree.
Each year since, in that house and in the five Christmases in the barn, we found our miracle trees. Part of the fun has been tromping through our woods, all eyes out for a cedar that looks halfway like a Christmas tree. If it has just a little potential, we can take care of the rest with a pair of clippers and fishing line. Some years, I've cut it, and others my husband has. Some years it takes branches from more than one tree even. But after it's shaped and turned to its best advantage, the same ornaments I bought as a single teacher and the ones I bought to commemorate our first Christmas and the porcelain gift ones are joined by the ones our three kids have made. Salt dough ones that slightly resemble candy canes.....the paper balls a sweet friend patiently helped them glue together.....tree shapes made from our own red clay when we experimented with brick making....the list goes on. Each one is precious and brings to mind a mess when it was made and the fun we had and how fast these years are flying.
In the barn, really, only we and our parents saw our Christmas trees. We just didn't have room for much company. But now we are in the house, and I am so looking forward to sharing this time of year with family and guests, to lots of laughter and cider and red ribbon. To Santa Claus coming down the chimney instead of the electric heater vent, or even more disappointing, the door. To our first Christmas memories in our new home. And so, I came really close to giving up the tradition of the miracle tree. I told myself the fun was in decorating anyway, that we would focus on that part. Wouldn't a really full, shaped, "professional" Christmas tree be beautiful? But, you know....I can't find any good Christmas tree farms around here, and after so many years of getting trees off our own place, the idea of picking some tree I don't even know out of a pile just started to seem impersonal. So, we took a walk this past Sunday afternoon.
We walked all over our place. We are so rich in scraggly, skinny cedar trees. All five of us and the dog tromped through the woods, eyeing the fencelines and any clump of dark green among the yellow and browns and reds of the hickories and oaks and sweet gums. Just before we headed down the path, my husband climbed in a sweet gum and taught us how to chew the sap. Not a threat to Wrigley at all, but still pretty good. And, sure enough, as we walked and as he and I saw for the millionth time lately how much the kids are growing and how much fun they have just exploring our little world, we found two potential miracle trees. The top nine feet of one will be our Christmas tree this year. I know these trees. They're ours. They've absorbed the sounds of our family, of a chainsaw cutting logs for our home, of the kids' whispers when they think they're hearing war drums deeper in the woods (band practice at the nearby high school a few miles away), of me calling my cat of 10 years who disappeared in June, of yells and laughter and squeals when we sled down our one good hill when we get a rare snow.
So, it'll come in the house, and my husband will turn it until I say I think most of the bare spots are facing the wall. We'll dress it up with ribbon and sparkles and ornaments from the gawdy to the precious, and this year, it will be our miracle tree. And I can't wait!
