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The Christmas trees of my youth
Editor's Note: Ken Root is taking a small break this week. The following is a re-print of his Dec. 11, 2000, column. In this first holiday season since my father's death, I catch myself thinking of him when I see things that cause me to remember my childhood years on the farm. He was born in 1907, before Oklahoma became a state. His parents were eager to go to Oklahoma territory to find work and had to wait until he was a month old and able to travel, before they loaded their possessions in a wagon and drove from Coffeyville, on the Kansas border, to Cushing, in the north central part of the state. My mother and father were married in 1929 and farmed in Oklahoma through the Depression. It is important to know this, because all else in their adult behavior is based on their Depression Era experiences. Christmas at our house was a lot of fun, looking back, but our possessions in the 1950s were still pretty meager. They were paying for a 160-acre farm that was mostly brush and washed away hills. The good part was that we were in the same shape as our neighbors; so it was normal and quite acceptable, to be poor. My parents were well qualified in the area of being conservative. They made sure that no money was spent frivolously for anything, like buying a Christmas tree when we could cut our own. In the brush country of central Oklahoma, there is only one tree that is green in winter. It is a flat-leafed red cedar that spreads rapidly, if it doesn't have competition. In the days before 2,4,5T was used to kill brush, the cedar was choked out by "blackjack" oak trees, except for a few places where it could gain a foothold. It had to face another challenge: cattle with parasites looking for a place to scratch. There literally was no tree that hadn't been broken down by a bull or cow in need of the relief the rough branches could supply. My father would begin looking for a Christmas tree as soon as the deciduous trees had dropped their leaves. He would size up the best cedars on the farm and cut the tree on the day after Thanksgiving. Home he would come, carrying or hauling it, depending on the size. He had a small oak stand that he made years before and he would put one long nail through the base and into the trunk to stabilize it. Some years, that tree was pretty shabby. It only might have one side that was presentable and a thin top. Nevertheless, we brought it inside, with the ceremony of a Macy's parade. At this point, my father's job was done. I never saw him put a single ornament on a tree. That was work for women and children. My sister would make strings of popcorn. Mom would go to her closely guarded possessions trunk and bring out the ornaments and tinsel, that she used year after year. There was one special decoration that we put on every year. It was a set of 12 bubble lights that gave off the most delightful glow and mystically boiled after just a few minutes of being plugged in. I would lie there and look at them for hours, as I tried to imagine what was in the packages she would wrap and put on the floor. We had to hear the annual warning about the Christmas tree catching fire. The admonition was based on the story of a church at Babbs Switch, in the 1930s, that had put candles on the tree and it caught fire during a children's program. The people made a dash for the doors that opened inward and many were killed in the panic, by smoke and fire. After we heard the story for the 10th time, we would put the last of the tinsel on the tree and stand back and look at the creation we had made. Since I have been married, we go to a Boy Scout lot or to a "cut your own" farm and pay $5 a foot for a pine tree that is round and full. I told a Christmas tree farmer about our shabby cedar trees of my youth and he returned the story, saying that one family had toured all his trees and came back with a small, broken little cedar that was growing wild on the edge of his woodlot. When they asked how much it was, he told them it was free. He said they headed home with greater joy than those who paid $100. I guess that is where I will leave it. It is not what you pay for Christmas that makes it meaningful. It is the effort you put into it that becomes the memory that lingers-- waiting to be triggered by events of the holiday season. Happy holidays, everyone, get out there and make some memories. Editor's note: Ken Root is now celebrating his 34th year as an agricultural professional. His career began as a vocational agriculture teacher, then turned to agricultural broadcasting and writing as well as environmental consulting and association management. He was the original host of AgriTalk (1994-2001) and now is lead farm broadcaster for WHO Radio in Des Moines, Iowa. Date: 11/21/07
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