A True Christmas Tree Tale

On November 3 this year, my cousin Jerry Ray Lindamood passed away. As often happens with the loss of special people in our lives—especially people who were a big part of our childhood—many fond memories have been flooding my thoughts in the days since then. 

I grew up in a Houston suburb, but my childhood included frequent trips to my grandparents’ house in Malakoff, a small east Texas town. My sister, brother, and I looked forward to those trips because something adventurous was always taking place there. Jerry Ray lived down the black-topped road from my grandparents, and he was often the source of those adventures. Among them: an exploration in the junk pile behind my grandparents’ house which resulted in his getting stitches in his finger; rides on the back of his shiny red motorcycle and being chased by dogs; a tree house built by him and his friends with a pulley to haul up supplies. When my sister and I tried to haul up a younger cousin, the rope broke. As you’ve probably surmised, risk often accompanied these adventures. But is it even an adventure if risk isn’t involved? (Btw, the cousin was and is fine.)

As I was decorating my house for Christmas this year, another Jerry Ray adventure came to me. It occurred in the late 1950s, so many of the details are fuzzy. But I do remember throngs of relatives had gathered at my grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving. When the huge meal was over, a passel of cousins, ranging in ages from about seven to twelve, assembled on the front porch, eager for something to do. 

Acres of pasture and woods surrounded my grandparents’ house, and those woods always supplied their Christmas trees. Mind you, these were not the perfectly shaped firs or spruces scientifically propagated on Christmas tree farms. These were rangy cedars with branches twisting in every direction. That Thanksgiving Day, Jerry Ray decided we would all traipse across the pasture to the woods and harvest one of those unruly trees for the upcoming Christmas. Armed with an axe, he sat out, cousins in tow.

Among my fuzzy memories, one remains very clear: Chopping down a Christmas tree in the woods is hard work. First, it takes a lot of walking to get to the woods and then more walking to locate a suitable tree. It can’t be too tall or too small or too full or too scrawny. Also, evidently felling a tree is laborious work. I say “evidently” because that job was left to the head lumberjack, Jerry Ray, who hacked at the trunk with determination while the rest of us observed. The hardest part, which involved everyone, was lugging that tree to the house. Anyone who has ever chopped down a tree knows it grows exponentially in size and weight once it hits the the ground. Each cousin grabbed a limb or branch, and we hauled that tree for what seemed like miles. 

After much sweat and toil and more than a few scrapes, splinters, and blisters, we dragged that tree into my grandparents’ front yard. We stood there proudly awaiting the praise and gratitude such an accomplishment deserved. I was already picturing that tree in my grandparents’ living room, decked out in multi-colored bulbs and an assortment of shiny balls and dripping with strands of lead foil icicles. (Yes, those were a thing in the days before the danger of lead was known.)

The grown-ups assembled on the porch, staring at the tree. I think they were surprised we’d managed to chop down a tree of that size and wrangle it all the way to the house. But instead of praise, we got, “That tree will be dried up by Christmas.” 

Crestfallen, we’d never contemplated that possibility even though Christmas was over a month away. But led by Jerry Ray, we weren’t defeated. He insisted—and we all agreed—if the tree were placed in a bucket of water in the garage, it stood a good chance of still being green at Christmas. 

To my delight, when our family returned to Malakoff for Christmas, a sprawling cedar, adorned with lights, ornaments, and deadly icicles, touched the ceiling of my grandparents’ living room. An array of gifts encircled it on the floor. When questioned, our grandparents assured my sister, brother, and me it was the same tree the cousins had harvested. 

For years, I believed that explanation. But recently it popped into my cynical, grown-up mind maybe it wasn’t the same tree. Knowing how hard their grandchildren had worked, had my grandparents obtained another tree and told a white lie to spare our feelings? I’ll never know for sure. But it’s Christmas time, and I choose to believe it was the same tree.

Thank you, Jerry Ray, for the beautiful memories. Although we didn’t get to see each other often in the latter years, I feel your absence deeply. But, as with that Christmas tree, I choose to believe. I picture you in your heavenly home, happily providing great adventures.

 

Christmas morning at my grandparents' house ca. 1958, '59. 

I felt very safe, seeing that my brother was well-armed. 

                                          

Wishing everyone memory-making adventures this 

Holiday Season!