I remember and cherish the Christmases of my childhood. They were simple and humble, with no fancy frills or garland.
I often stood in the windows of the stores downtown, longingly dreaming of a Christmas tree with expensive decorations and giant bows made of red velvet ribbon.
And the angel on top?
She was my heart’s desire rather than the ancient star that topped our tree.
It helped none that trees were even more beautiful in the Christmas television specials, which were shown in vivid color. Bob Hope, Andy Williams, Dean Martin.
Bing Crosby. Oh, my. I wished we had a fireplace on which to string greenery and hang a stunning wreath.
I didn’t realize it then, but my parents did their best. Since I was born to them late in life, they were pretty much out of the holly jolly business from my siblings — yet they gave it their best try with the meager money left over after the monthly bills.
Daddy tramped into the woods, chopped down a pine tree, and dragged it home tied behind that blue Ford tractor. He loved that tractor, the brainstorm of Henry Ford, a farmer, who recognized the need for such a piece of machinery, so he developed one. Had someone come along and offered Daddy a good deal for the tractor or me, I would’ve been the one long gone.
Later, someone gave us a used artificial tree.
I danced happily until I realized that, though the limbs were perfect, not lopsided like farm trees, and much easier to disassemble (cleaning up the pine needles was torture), there was no delicious scent of pine.
Mama pulled magnolia leaves from a tree in the front yard, and, sometimes, if the weather had not been too harsh, tucked back among the limbs, she found a beautiful blossom. She broke off more pine limbs, then decorated the top of the piano with green holly and red berries from the bush next to the front porch. It was all homemade but quite pretty, I must admit.
When I was about 9 years old, I sidled up to Daddy, sitting at the kitchen table, finishing off his morning coffee, and putting my arm around his neck. I said, “Daddy, I need some mistletoe.”
He tried not to smile.
“You do, do you? Well, how do you figure we get it?”
Mama had recently explained to me about the birds and the holly berries.
“They eat the berries,” Mama said.
Then, they leave the seed behind whenever they land on a limb and leave droppings, they leave the seed behind.”
After that, I noticed large bunches of mistletoe hanging at the top of tall oak trees. The only problem was getting 15 or 20 feet up to the mistletoe.
I frowned, “I don’t know, but I’m sure you can figure it out. I will tie it with ribbon and hang it over the doors.”
Daddy smiled, standing up from the table. “Hang on, little ‘un. Let me get my boots and jacket. Go get yours, too.”
A few minutes later, I met him at the back door with his shotgun a few minutes later.
I looked quizzical.
“Whatcha doin’ with that?”
He winked. “You’re about to find out how to get mistletoe from a treetop.”
Daddy and I climbed over the pasture fence. Then, stopping at the creek, he said, “You stay here.”
He waded the water and climbed the embankment.
About 50 yards later, he stopped, lifted the shotgun to his shoulder, and aimed high toward a large bunch of mistletoe in a tree. With one shot, he hit the mistletoe and sent it tumbling downward. Another bunch took two shots to sever it entirely from the limb.
To the house, I returned with an armload of beautiful mistletoe.
These days, I have those beautiful trees that I once dreamed of.
But I’d rather have Mama and Daddy than that mistletoe.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell mystery/ history series.