Roy Edwards
F.O.R. San Bernard
Mouth /F.O.R. Community Center
Committee Member
Original O.C. Member

The Christmas Tree

By Roy Edwards

Let me take you back to my grandfather’s farm outside Tennessee Colony, Texas. Let’s go back 56 years or so…

It’s Christmas time, so there are an uncountable number of aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, friends, and assorted unknown – but possibly invited guests, in and around Grandpa Ruffo's house.
 

 A delegation of older cousins had been duly selected, and now they approached Ruffo with proper stealth and respect. Ruffo was regally enthroned in his chair in front of and slightly to the right of the fireplace, alternately napping and reading the newspaper. After an appropriate passage of time, grandpa opened his eyes and with the slightest nod of his head, acknowledged the delegation and allowed Cousin Betty to speak.

“Grandpa Ruffo, will you take us into Palestine tomorrow so we can buy a Christmas tree?”

“Nope.” Eyes closed. Subject closed. No discussion.

Total shock. Utter dismay. Throats closed up and tears rolled down. Christmas without a store bought tree. The only possible worst case scenario would be no store bought tree and no store bought presents. This mere thought could crush ANY one under twenty.

“We’ll go down to the back pasture and cut down the tree that I’ve been watching now for some years,” Ruffo said softly. 

The next morning, just after a sumptuous breakfast cooked on Grandma Ruby’s great wood burning stove as Grandpa Ruffo wiped the pan gravy off his chin, he made eye contact with me and said, “Son, go get Donald Clyde. Then go to the barn and get an axe, a hatchet, that length of halter rope, and the bow saw. Then load the truck.”

Grandpa’s request carried a weight just above the direct order of a Marine Drill Instructor. Donald Clyde and I were half way to the barn before Grandpa finished his last sentence.

Now Ruffo owned a ¼ ton dark brown over dark green International Harvester pick-up truck. I.H. purposely picked the worst possible colors to paint what had to be the ugliest pick-up ever built. If you have a color dictionary, look up the proper name – UGLY. It’s right next to a picture of a brown and green I.H. pick-up. No Tailgate, no bumpers, multiple dings, right fender held in place with baling wire and a windshield with a crack than ran from the lower left, made multiple loops and disappeared in the upper right hand corner. When the sun caught the loops, they spelled out a Polish obscenity.

Away we went – around one of the great Sycamore trees, down the lane, across the asphalt country road and out to open the gap. Then, close the gap. Go alongside the new potato field to the next gap, to the corn field - the largest corn field in the state of Texas - only four feet narrower than the entire state of Kansas. To our horror, Ruffo turns across the rows.

If you have never ridden in an I.H. pick-up, you don’t know what you’ve missed. Its suspension was unique. The front and rear axles were welded directly to the frame - no shocks or springs.  The tires were 8 ply commercial and they were maintained at 75 psi. On a smooth surface, an I.H. rode like a brick. On a bumpy road, the ride could only be compared to that of a defective super roller coaster – and we were going to cross a corn field. I glanced over towards Grandpa. He had a double white knuckle grip on the steering wheel, his left butt cheek was wedged between the door and the seat, and his left foot was hooked behind the brake pedal. The only thing Donald Clyde and I had to hold on to was breakfast.

The first few rows weren’t too bad. I had always wanted to fly and this was my chance. Then, BOTH axles hit the rows.

At the first double row, Donald Clyde is laying face down in the floorboard and I am standing in the middle of his back, my face is pressed against the back window and I can’t find my hands because my arms are jammed in the crack between the bench seat and the seat back.

By the second double row, my head is inside the glove compartment, my rear is against the windshield and my left leg is under Donald Clyde’s left armpit.

Next came the third double row and my left leg is in the left top corner of the rear window, my right leg is in the right tip corner and I look like I am trying to do push-ups off the bottom side of the dashboard. The far edge of the field was just beyond the horizon. About this time grandpa said, “Boys, - keep an eye on the tools in the bed. If they bounce out, we’ll have to turn around and come back for them.” Grandpa had a weird sense of humor.

A couple of bounces later, as I suspended against the roof line, trying to hold on to the headliner, I looked back. The axe was buried up (about 3 inches) into the I.H.’s wooden bed and the bow saw was spinning around the handle at about 2,000 R.P.M.’s  - looked good to me.

Then came the fourth double row and Donald Clyde us standing on the right side running board, hanging on to what once was the right rear view mirror baracket. The door was closed and the window was rolled up.

By the fifth double row, the right side window mechanism cratered, never to work again. The window pane went to the bottom of the door (or somewhere) and stayed there. Donald Clyde came through the window feet first, hands still gripping what was left of the rear view mirror bracket. He was perfectly parallel to the seat and I could have used him for a table if I had not been sitting on the inside of the roof, staring at the floor board at the time.

After an undetermined period of time, we hit the semi-level cow pasture and drove to the tree. Donald Clyde and I stood in awe before a 10 foot tall natural Holly tree. It was a full six feet across the bottom limbs. Each brilliant green leaf had been hand polished by the Edwards’ protective Leprechauns. There were hundreds of thousands of red berries, each one brighter red than a newly waxed fire engine.

With a slight quiver in his voice, Grandpa Ruffo quietly said, “OK, boys, let’s take her down, load her up and get her back to the house.” He even chose a smoother route back so as not to lose any berries.

Grandma Ruby met us at the door with a big old white sheet so we could wrap and cinch down the branches to get the tree through the door with no damage. Aunt Ruby was busy popping cookie sheets of popcorn and setting them out to cool. My mother was gathering needles and white thread. Uncle Slim was making and fitting a tree stand. Uncle Jessie was laying packages of colored construction paper out on the dining table along with scissors –the scissors still had sharp points back then. Aunt Mary brought out a box of that white paste that some kids loved to eat. Uncle Charles was looking for the “tin foil” – aluminum came along later. The house had a ten foot ceiling, so the tree was trimmed to nine and a half feet. Every kid was put to work making decorations.

Soon, popcorn ropes draped back and forth around the tree. Alternating kernals were dipped in food coloring for an extra festive look. Colored construction paper chains ran between the popcorn ropes. Thin, stiff cardboard was cut into shapes of stars, moons, icicles and – I don’t know what else. Then they were all wrapped in “tin foil” and hung from the branches with straightened out paper clips. My older female cousins were making what looked like Trumpet Vine flowers from “tin foil”. The long, narrow end of the flower was wrapped around the end of a branch and a single birthday candle was firmly wedged into the flower. Grandma Ruby brought our her 150 year old heirloom China doll what now wore a gold halo, silver wings and an absolutely beautiful long white dress. Grandpa Ruffo climbed the ladder and tenderly placed the angel atop the tree. It was late on December 23 when the tree was officially declared decorated.

Late Christmas Eve, everyone was called into the living room. Ruffo had banked the fire in the fireplace, somebody turned out every light in and around the house. The men went out on the porch, and then filed back in. Every one of them carried a bucket of water or sand. The women tested the stability of every candle and then lit them. The flames danced across the red berries, the shiny green leaves and the “tin foil” ornaments. There were a thousand points of shimmering light multiplied by another thousand points of light. In my mind’s eye, the beauty of this event is as bright today as it was then.

Uncle Bedford’s rich bass voice rang out and he led us in two stanzas of Silent Night.

The candles were quickly extinguished and kids were sent to bed so Santa Claus could come.

I have no idea what toys I received that year because I had received a better “gift”. I know that the memory I have of that magnificently beautiful Christmas Holly Tree will stay with me for all my days – and that memories shared will never die.

May this Christmas be a shared memory for you.  Merry Christmas!