The Little Christmas Tree of Long Ago

The merriment and excitement in the faces of my siblings, Sharon, Harold, and Barry, undoubtedly matched my own. It was Christmas and time to put up the tree. For the past several weeks leading into Christmas, we had saved the egg cartons and prepared for this day. The box of pressed-cardboard bells were stacked and ready, their colours influenced by whatever our minds could create with the sixteen pack of Crayola’s that we shared. 

With two pairs of scissors, myself and Sharon, the eldest of the four, did the cutting. We carefully snipped off the cover and then across the rows of the carton, being careful not to tear into the cup portion and ruin and opportunity to craft an ornament.

Having the couple of dozen free, their edges shaped in wiggles and triangles by our small hands, we all took to designing. Once we had drawn and coloured stripes, waves, diamonds, and circles on the brownish background, I had the task of making the hole in the top. The puncture was a skilled affair so as not to tear the decoration or make the hole too big that the yarn wouldn’t hold. Sharon carefully clipped off grey yarn while Barry and Harold made whopping great knots on the end and pushed the other end through the holes, sometimes with the aid of the scissors tip. I finished them off with a loop tied on the outer end big enough to hang on the limbs.

When all the bells were complete, the next task was the garland. That year we had a package of multi-coloured construction paper. Sharon and I were again the scissor wielding strip cutters. Harold and Barry contorted them into circles and used the Elmer glue to dab the ends keeping the pressure on them until they dried.

After all the strips were cut and many of the loops were made, we worked together to join the loops and make a multi-coloured paper chain for the tree. We piled the bells and paper chains in a Carnation milk box until we were ready.

With axe and bucksaw in hand, we headed in over the ridge to find the perfect tree. Some of the requirements included a small size that was easy to drag out. We were allowed to venture as far as Soaker’s Path which was on the hill behind the back meadow. This was shouting distance from the back door. There was lots of young spruce growth, so we picked a tree that was Barry’s height and cut it down. We took turns pulling the tree along the top of the snow, all downhill, as far as the woodpile.

There, Dad nailed two splits crosswise on the stump so that it would easily stand. Sharon helped me pick it up and carry it, butt first, around the woodpile, along the narrow path between the cribbing that held up the back of the standing woodpile and the bordering board fence. It seemed so far for our little legs until we reached the corner where the fence took a turn up the hill and the woodpile ended. We had the opening barred off with a section of fence so that we could create our own little house. The only way in was through the magical passageway under the wood where we transformed from child to adult between ends and reverted back again on the way out.

Eagerly, Harold and Barry ran to the house and fetched the box of decorations. The ground was uneven, so the tree was partially leaning against the corner in the fence. We quickly fixed that with a few strings of yarn tied to the fence and the woodpile. It was magnificent. We set to work with the paper chain, each one of us taking turns to fix and move and drape until it was perfect. Then we took the bells and strung them from the branches. The wool from the hangers puffed on the limb and was difficult to move once turpentine from the fresh tree grabbed on to it. That left globs of decorations in some places until we decided to plan instead of just doing.

We admired our creation before Barry mentioned we didn’t have a star. We dragged the milk box back to the house and cut out a five-point star. Mom gave us a strip off the tinfoil roll. We crinkled it over the cardboard until everything was covered and shiny and fingerprinty.

Dad cracked off the narrowest split from the woodbox and we scotched-taped it to what we concluded was the back. We took more yarn to fasten that to the narrow sprig at the height of the young spruce. Away we went again to crown the Christmas Tree. Harold balanced on the top of the fence and held the star while Barry tipped the tree forward and me and Sharon strung the yarn around and around until the star’s fate was sealed. We gingerly placed our Elizabethan tree back in the corner and fidgeted with the paper chain until nothing was bare.

Our tree was complete but for one thing, we had to set our places around it. We raced out the passageway and grabbed four chunks of wood that Dad had clove and threw into a pile by the sawhorse. The biggest ones made the best chairs. This wood was dry so there was no chance of getting sticky turpentine on our pants. We laid the sticks with the rolly side down around the tiny space. I chose closest to the woodpile because it gave me the best viewing angle and I could lean on the sticks when I wanted.

We all sat in silence our rosy cheeks bursting with pride as we gazed at the Christmas Tree in our own little house. The egg-carton bells swayed in the icy breeze of the winter air where it found its way between the cracks of the fence behind it. We discussed whether we’d lay stockings out but decided against it because it might be cold on Christmas morning. It was better if Santa got a rest and warmed inside the house rather than having to get through the narrow passage leading in.

A chill settled on us, so we ran to the house and Mom made us each a cup of tea and a slice of toast. With great care we carried the brimming mugs back to our spots and sipped the warm liquid and chewed on the crispy slabs of toast. Tiny flecks of snow meandered towards us to transform the innocent and homemade to enchanting and extraordinary. And boy was it ever wondrous.

Over the next three days we wore a path in and out under the woodpile to our little cozy den at the corner of the fence where we drank tea, we laughed, we told stories, and we talked about Christmas. We lacked for nothing because we had what we needed in abundance.

Looking back, it was a perfect place for us to keep out from underfoot in the house. We were so grown up in our minds, we sat in wonder of the freedom of that hideaway and the promise of Christmas. This is one of many happy recollections of childhood that shaped me and will stay with me forever in a cocoon of warm memories. Now I want to have a cup of tea in that magical place behind the woodpile.

A writer and a singer pass each other on the road: Me and Ed Sheeran

Today, Ed Sheeran and my mother taught me a lesson in looking back. As groundwork, I am attending a writing retreat in Clifden on the West Coast of Ireland. Funny thing is, I didn’t come here to write, really, but instead maybe to find a story, or inspiration, or something that I didn’t know I needed. Day one, I’m getting closer.

So, what does Ed Sheeran have to do with this? Well, after spending the morning with a bunch of writers and reflecting on life, stories, etc. and thinking of my mother, I decided, since I had nothing to write in the afternoon, I’d challenge myself to a nice long walk.

I didn’t know how it would go because I hadn’t been walking except for the off and on odd time that I’d go for 20 minutes or so, but nothing like the “go big or go home” notion that I had in that moment. I packed my backpack with water and my room key, a few tissues and set out to find Clifden Castle and the great lookout.

I started on a hill, simply because I had to go left and left entailed hill. I did okay, took my time and made it to the top. My heart and lungs were in symphony with the elements. Or perhaps that was my illusion, because in reality, there would have to be a hurricane on for that to be true.

On a flat stretch I heard footsteps behind me and looked back. Having a writer brain, I believed it was better to look a serial killer in the eye before you die and you can somehow bring holy hell on him if you should die, or maybe said serial killer might change his mind once they made a personal connection or eye contact.

No, I don’t always think of serial killers when somebody walks behind me in a strange land, but moments before I had noted all the large gate posts had four standing stones on top – assuming it was for north, south, etc., but I came to a cottage that had large round stones on top of the gate posts that didn’t fit with the picture. To that, I thought maybe I’d ask somebody if they were out in the yard. But, like you never know, it could be a serial killer’s house so that gave me pause. But there was a patio umbrella. Did serial killers have patio umbrellas? I was working up the courage to cross the road when in the next step, I saw vans in the back yard that gave serial killer vibes so I just kept on going intent on not making eye contact with anyone in the yard. I had just escaped the grip of a serial killer – yes my mind works like that.

So that set me up to think of serial killers when I spotted the man behind me. I turned again going forward and he was instantly beside me. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Beautiful day.”

Did serial killers really start with that. I figured I give him a chance. I could always use the throat punch move if he had ill intentions. Saying that, I am obviously overstating any bravado I might have should the situation really arise.

Anyway, the young man looked familiar. He had a red beard, and over his hat he was listening to music on really expensive headphones. Serial killers didn’t pay a lot for such things. “Beautiful day indeed,” I replied as I sized him up trying to figure out where the familiar was coming from.

He had lifted the earpiece from one side. “I’m going to the look out,” I said. Then I tried not to give away my regret for saying that because he could go there and lay in wait for me because serial killers were crafty like that.

“Good for you,” he said. “Me too.” So, I realized he’d made an assessment of my abilities in his “good for you” tone that was off putting in a way if I were somebody who’d be offended by such a thing. Maybe I could see it as encouragement instead.

“Enjoy your walk,” I said. He nodded and left. Now I was able to get my bearings. As he left I thought of Ed Sheeran. That was who I’d been speaking to. Ed Sheeran was on the road. Darn, I missed the opportunity to get a picture with him. But he deserved his privacy, and it was kind of him to say hello to me on the road. And he didn’t really have a tone. That was on me.

As I continued, there were several places to get off the road, paths to take and I wasn’t sure how far the “look out” was, so I followed Ed, who stayed in my periphery for a long time. I took some snaps and continued in my plod toward the lookout which, at every turn and hilltop I was expecting to see.

By and by, Ed was out of sight, and I stopped to take a drink rather than trying to catch him. There were times he didn’t travel too fast, I doubted he was lingering so I could follow him, and he’d have to come back, after all. But, writer brain, he could be luring me to my death.

I digress. I laid the backpack on the rock wall to get my water bottle. I looked over. Below me was Clifden Castle. I would not have seen it if I didn’t stop. Ed was sending me a message about paying attention to what was around me and not being so focused on the end point that I miss important stuff. Thanks, Ed, understood.

I took some pictures, admired the view, and packed away my water bottle. I decided to keep going. I didn’t want to go back yet as my heart and lungs were becoming acclimatized to the distance and had settled. It was truly a beautiful day. Then, I came to a fork in the road and there was no sign of a lookout sign.

I chose the coastal route. Ed crossed my mind. Which way would he have gone? Too late now, he was out of sight. Maybe, I had escaped a serial killer with my chosen path. Curiosity kicked in now that I didn’t have Ed distracting me. Several times I saw a turn and wanted to see what was on the other side. Scenery was unbelievable. I saw a sign that told me to be cautious of the bull, which I figured was an allegory for life. That made me smile.

Then I thought of my mother and how she would have loved to be here. I wore mittens she had knit, a purposeful take to Ireland because it was a place she’d always wanted to go. What would she want me to know? A blackberry thorn grabbed my mitten and stopped me. I looked out over a castle, the gorgeous ocean, the scenery, everything was just awesome. My writer brain zinged again and thought of what I’d seen by looking back, and by just simply looking. Was she telling me that while it was good to look forward, there was also something to be learned and brought into the present by looking back. The castle had been there, I would have missed it by going forward, focusing on nothing else but Ed Sheeran. But the castle would be there whether I’d seen it or not. That’s the thing about things you don’t appreciate or regrets you have for things you haven’t seen. They are there anyway, with or without you.

I looked at the hitch and realize we live a life of hitches. Mending them might be a looking back thing, a looking forward thing, but the hitch would have changed the stitching no matter what way I looked. It was a beautiful hitch. My favourite colour had been pulled out. The hitch had happened, I could mend it if I wanted, and leave it as a reminder of that moment. Maybe I would. Two beautiful memories of Mom and a gorgeous day. We often laughed at the scrapes she got into of which this was definitely not one, but reminded me of those moments. That’s the thing about the little worries and disruptions, in the rear-view mirror, they’re not that bad and are sometimes funny if you want them to be.

I had a chat with a couple of ponies, a couple of donkeys, and then a lady and a dog made their way toward me. I asked her about the lookout, the official one, because up to then everything I looked out over was stunning in an unofficial way. She confirmed I should have taken the other route and, though it was a loop, it would be long after dark when I got back if I had the energy to go around. My mind did want to keep going, but reality said differently. I went to the next turn and planned on going back. There was Ed, again. Making his way toward me.

He stopped and chatted. He’d been to Canada recently. I won’t give up his secrets because they are his to disclose. We said our goodbye’s and off he went. He obviously didn’t recognize me (laugh really hard out loud). But, I let him go ahead a few steps before I turned around and followed him to Abbyglen.

Before too long, he was out of sight. I enjoyed the views on the way back. I thought of Mom. I saw things I didn’t notice in my going. That’s the thing about perspective. You go with what you go with at the time. I believe she walked with me. I felt her presence. I felt her peace. I felt a “letting go” of sorts. A past can’t be changed kind of thing where any regrets should be left, lessons are all you can bring forward. I felt her kindness mirrored in me. I thanked her for being such a meaningful part of all that I am and all that I hope to become under her influence.

And then Ed appeared again. Out of nowhere he passed me on the other side of the road. He’d accompanied me, being there when I needed him as a guide. He’d let me go as I walked back to Abbyglen. I could find the rest of my way alone. Thanks Ed. Thanks Mom. Message received.

Two hour walk, lots of pictures and inspiration. Writer brain engaged - maybe overactive. Writing is a cure for that.

Day two, what’s ya got?