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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Family
- Published: 12/13/2019
Cutting the perfect tree
Born 1950, M, from Sparta, il, United StatesA Russey Family Christmas Tradition (Adventure 1)
Cutting the perfect tree
I have many pleasant memories of the family Christmas tree.
Thinking back on it now, my Christmas tree experience seems more like something Norman Rockwell would paint. I grew up in the 50s and have since seen many Rockwell paintings, so perhaps my memories are somewhat tainted by that. But on the other hand, I really do have vivid memories of my childhood. I think Norman Rockwell most likely painted things which reflected my life.
Besides my Mom & Dad, there were five children in my childhood home. I had two older sisters, one older brother and one younger sister. We all took part in decorating the Christmas tree, one way or another.
Christmas was a special time for me. I knew it meant Santa Claus was on his way, but it also meant a trip to the woods with dad.
I was probably five through ten years of age when we would go Christmas tree shopping. That was a very exclusive experience. Only the men of the house could participate. I felt proud to be included in a man adventure.
About two weeks before Christmas, dad would take me and my brother out to the country to pick out our tree. I remember walking with him through the forest of prickly pine trees. Finding our tree wasn't an easy thing to do because the room in which the tree was going had a tall ceiling, probably twelve to fifteen feet in height. At five years of age it seemed a hundred feet tall.
The tree we brought home had to be just right, of course. If it was too small, the living room would look funny with a little tree. It had to be a large, full tree. But, at that age, obviously, I had no concept of largeness. Even the little trees were big to me.
To check the largeness of a tree, I would extend my hand as far as I could above my head and look up. If I couldn't touch the tip of the tree, I thought it was big enough, and if I thought it didn't look puny, I would tell my dad to “Take that one! Take that one!” Dad would usually tell me the one I picked was not the perfect tree we were looking for. He would then reassure me that the perfect tree was still out there. We just had to keep looking.
The weather was always cold and the snow deep. Back in the 50s, that seemed to be more of the norm. Of course, I was a child. I am much older now, so perhaps my memory of that time is a bit gray. We grayer folks tend to remember Southern Illinois winters that way.
Regardless of the weather, dad would never cut down the first tree I selected. We would trudge on until we, he, found the “perfect” tree.
Once identified, it was then and only then, that dad would take his saw, not an ax, and start cutting down the gigantic tree.
The first year of the adventure I asked him why he didn't cut it down with the ax I knew he had in the garage. He told me that the “saw cut” made the bottom fit better in the tree stand. I'm a dad now, so I know what he really meant. I wasn't much more than a baby and I couldn't be trusted to be anywhere near that ax.
He used a two man saw, which of course I wanted to be on the other end of. Any young boy would consider that a fun adventure, at least until the fun wore off. Dad would let me try, anyway. He knew it wouldn't take long before I would discover that I couldn't do it and lose interest.
My bigger brother, who was much older, was able to handle the other end of the saw. He would stand back and direct Dad and me while we attempted to fall the “perfect” tree.
My brother would patiently wait until I was satisfied that I couldn't do it and plead for him to take over. He knew, I'm sure, that there would be less of an opportunity for a whine session from me if he waited until I determined the work was too hard.
Once I relinquished the saw to my brother, the real cutting began. My new job, I determined, was to aid them by holding the tree up as they cut. I couldn't understand, though, why they kept telling me to stand back when I was trying to be so helpful. In my mind I guess I was afraid of our Christmas tree falling on them. And if it did, I probably thought myself strong enough to hold up the falling tree as they scampered out from underneath it.
I can still remember thinking “This must be what it's like to be a lumberjack.” I would shout “Timmm—berrr!” as the tree fell to the ground. I was Paul Bunyan, and I knew that was what he yelled.
After the tree was down, we would drag it out to the trailer, tie it down, and head back home. How we got that giant of a tree through the house door I don't remember, but it always came through.
I was probably more of a hindrance than a help. But, Dad and my brother made me feel like I was an important part of the adventure.
Cutting the perfect tree(Ed DeRousse)
A Russey Family Christmas Tradition (Adventure 1)
Cutting the perfect tree
I have many pleasant memories of the family Christmas tree.
Thinking back on it now, my Christmas tree experience seems more like something Norman Rockwell would paint. I grew up in the 50s and have since seen many Rockwell paintings, so perhaps my memories are somewhat tainted by that. But on the other hand, I really do have vivid memories of my childhood. I think Norman Rockwell most likely painted things which reflected my life.
Besides my Mom & Dad, there were five children in my childhood home. I had two older sisters, one older brother and one younger sister. We all took part in decorating the Christmas tree, one way or another.
Christmas was a special time for me. I knew it meant Santa Claus was on his way, but it also meant a trip to the woods with dad.
I was probably five through ten years of age when we would go Christmas tree shopping. That was a very exclusive experience. Only the men of the house could participate. I felt proud to be included in a man adventure.
About two weeks before Christmas, dad would take me and my brother out to the country to pick out our tree. I remember walking with him through the forest of prickly pine trees. Finding our tree wasn't an easy thing to do because the room in which the tree was going had a tall ceiling, probably twelve to fifteen feet in height. At five years of age it seemed a hundred feet tall.
The tree we brought home had to be just right, of course. If it was too small, the living room would look funny with a little tree. It had to be a large, full tree. But, at that age, obviously, I had no concept of largeness. Even the little trees were big to me.
To check the largeness of a tree, I would extend my hand as far as I could above my head and look up. If I couldn't touch the tip of the tree, I thought it was big enough, and if I thought it didn't look puny, I would tell my dad to “Take that one! Take that one!” Dad would usually tell me the one I picked was not the perfect tree we were looking for. He would then reassure me that the perfect tree was still out there. We just had to keep looking.
The weather was always cold and the snow deep. Back in the 50s, that seemed to be more of the norm. Of course, I was a child. I am much older now, so perhaps my memory of that time is a bit gray. We grayer folks tend to remember Southern Illinois winters that way.
Regardless of the weather, dad would never cut down the first tree I selected. We would trudge on until we, he, found the “perfect” tree.
Once identified, it was then and only then, that dad would take his saw, not an ax, and start cutting down the gigantic tree.
The first year of the adventure I asked him why he didn't cut it down with the ax I knew he had in the garage. He told me that the “saw cut” made the bottom fit better in the tree stand. I'm a dad now, so I know what he really meant. I wasn't much more than a baby and I couldn't be trusted to be anywhere near that ax.
He used a two man saw, which of course I wanted to be on the other end of. Any young boy would consider that a fun adventure, at least until the fun wore off. Dad would let me try, anyway. He knew it wouldn't take long before I would discover that I couldn't do it and lose interest.
My bigger brother, who was much older, was able to handle the other end of the saw. He would stand back and direct Dad and me while we attempted to fall the “perfect” tree.
My brother would patiently wait until I was satisfied that I couldn't do it and plead for him to take over. He knew, I'm sure, that there would be less of an opportunity for a whine session from me if he waited until I determined the work was too hard.
Once I relinquished the saw to my brother, the real cutting began. My new job, I determined, was to aid them by holding the tree up as they cut. I couldn't understand, though, why they kept telling me to stand back when I was trying to be so helpful. In my mind I guess I was afraid of our Christmas tree falling on them. And if it did, I probably thought myself strong enough to hold up the falling tree as they scampered out from underneath it.
I can still remember thinking “This must be what it's like to be a lumberjack.” I would shout “Timmm—berrr!” as the tree fell to the ground. I was Paul Bunyan, and I knew that was what he yelled.
After the tree was down, we would drag it out to the trailer, tie it down, and head back home. How we got that giant of a tree through the house door I don't remember, but it always came through.
I was probably more of a hindrance than a help. But, Dad and my brother made me feel like I was an important part of the adventure.
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