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.