Prickly thoughts

by Darryl Wilkinson
Do you know when artificial Christmas trees came to be?
For me it was in the 1960s at my grandma Wilkinson’s home in Odessa. It was a small silver-tinsel thing, with large red ornaments — exactly like you’d see in the display windows at the Macy’s department store in Kansas City.
Real or artificial didn’t really matter. Kidlike, I definitely was more interested in packages underneath that shiny silver impostor, the ones with my name on them. But I recall the negative comments my folks shared about that artificial tree on the drive back home. Maybe that’s where my bias against the artificial originates.
Fortunately, there’s a personal Currier & Ives memory for counterbalance. One time my Wilcoxon grandpa hitched the horse to the sled he sometimes used to haul hay to the cattle. We dashed across the snow to the timber at the west edge of the hay field.
My legs were short; the snow seemed deep. I got really tired before perking up with grandma’s hot chocolate once back in the old farmhouse kitchen. She was making cinnamon popcorn balls and the aroma … oh, you just had to be there, like I am now by just thinking about it.
As picturesque as that may sound, it was another Christmas on the same route that left me with stronger memories. Grandpa’s Massey-Ferguson 65 replaced the horse; a wooden plank carry-all mounted on the tractor’s 3-point hitch replaced the sled. And it was so cold we debated whether or not to even go.
Cold can pierce but nothing pierces a small child’s fingers more than a wild, dry cedar being cut for a Christmas tree. This was during childhood years before I merited leather work gloves. Cotton gloves are nothing against the prickly points of cedar needles.
Our choice was made quickly, the first cedar we spied for faster return back inside. The cedar needles were razor sharp as we decorated, using a red-and-green paper chain my sister had made and grandma’s popcorn string. A string of Christmas lights added much to our creation, the old-fashioned kind with air bubbles continuously bubbling within the glass stem encasing a colored liquid heated by a base lightbulb — the technological wonder of its day.
Fast forward to my own children during those years we were busy making their childhood memories. Once Christmas was almost upon us and we were without a tree. This was my responsibility as head of our household, but I wasn’t worried.
At the time the newspaper office was still uptown. My daily parking spot was just out the back door. I’m not sure what day of the year it was but I decided the little cedar sprouting up against the tin shed we called our newsprint warehouse would be cut at Christmas. The decision was pragmatic. We needed a tree; this tree needed to be removed. The galvanized tin was already beginning to show rust where the tree branches rubbed. With small effort and a saw, both problems were solved.
Only I unintentionally created another.
My publishing predecessor, Joe Snyder, also had his eye on that little tree but for different reasons. He had allowed that tree to grow despite its circumstances – maybe because of its circumstances.
The tree was misshaped. Growing so closely against the shed, the tree had one side without any limbs. And yet, it not only grew but flourished despite the rocky ground and without any particular care. It was remarkable, really, a testament of doing well against all odds. I think Joe linked a bit of his own self-worth with that defiant yet beautifully lopsided little cedar tree.
My taking that tree was selfish. Our living room was crowded with little bodies and little presents, making every square inch of space precious. To have a Christmas tree demanding only half the normal space was practical. I cut down the tree without even asking. How was I to know that Joe privately held that prickly little cedar against the warehouse in such esteem?
Well, sometime later during that Christmas cheer he let me know about it. In just a few words he conveyed his thoughts about my trespass. He loved my children so much that I knew he would overlook my callous indiscretion. But he convicted me of being selfish. Nearly every Christmas now I recall that feeling of selfishness … taking without pause to consider, instead, giving.
Guilt plays out in many ways. It doesn’t have to involve the taking of a Christmas tree without permission. It can be the result of practically anything, a transgression or an omission. For too many of us, ‘tis the season of guilty feelings.
Guilt is really about focusing on the wrong thing — the perfect tree, the perfect decoration, the perfect gift. There’s unhealthy stress to create Currier & Ives moments.
Sometimes the thing most valued is lopsided.
So, whether you choose an artificial or real Christmas tree this season doesn’t matter. What’s most important are those moments with people you care about, creating warm memories together no matter what the reason. Any gift exchange falls short if we forget the greatest gift ever given.
If you drive by our place, though, you might notice that little cedar encroaching against our east chain link fence. I decorate that tree growing taller every year, despite its sharp needles. Maybe to recall special times past, or maybe as a sort of penitence. Perhaps Christmas cedar tree needles prick for a reason.
We celebrate the Savior’s birth while not always remembering how the manger led to the cross. And we worry too much about decorating the Christmas tree perfectly instead of humbly accepting and celebrating the only perfect gift ever given.
Prickly thoughts, indeed.