The truth about trees of the Christmas variety

"The week after Thanksgiving."

That was my mother's standard reply to my post-Halloween nagging. In my young mind, the first week of November was none too early to find the best living-room size cedar tree, which would be decorated for Christmas.

"The week after Thanksgiving. That's when we'll go look for a tree," my mother would announce, using a tone of voice that needed no interpretation. The subject was closed until the turkey was eaten.

There's a peculiar thing about the farm on Killough Valley in the Ozarks over yonder. It had no cedar trees. As most of you probably know, cedar trees can be found just about everywhere along the edges of the woods and across the open glades of Southeast Missouri. But not in Killough Valley.

And another peculiar thing: There are no springs feeding the creek bed that runs the course of the valley. The only spring I know of is at the very bottom of the valley where the creek meanders into Black River. Technically, that spring may not even be in Killough Valley, since it's so close to the river.

As a result of these two oddities, I have always associated spring-fed valleys with cedar trees. There's a reason. As I recollect, wherever we found abundant cedar trees, we also found a creek with cold, clear water nearby. It's like adding two plus two to get four. It's just the way things are.

The forests on the hills around Killough Valley had, at one time, been old-growth pine. But all that timber had been harvested decades ago. Now the rocky hills were covered with oak and hickory trees. And an occasional patch of pine. But the native pine trees weren't suitable for Christmas trees. Not in our minds, anyway. The long-needled pines were limp-limbed and gangly. They would sag to the floor if loaded with ornaments and tinsel.

No, our Christmas tree had to be a cedar. And we had to rely on the kindness of others to get that perfect tree every week after Thanksgiving.

My aunt and uncle on Greenwood Valley over the hill, the valley where I went to Shady Nook School, had a few cedar trees on their farm. You know what else they had? Mistletoe growing in clumps high up in the winter-bare branches of the tall trees that grew along their creek. But gathering mistletoe is another tale, one involving a strong throwing arm and sharp rocks gathered from the creek.

Since my aunt and uncle's farm was just a few miles away, it was a handy place to get a Christmas tree. But there weren't a lot of cedars on their farm, and my mother worried that we were somehow depleting their cedar population when we arrived, ax in hand, the week after Thanksgiving.

Farther north, on Brushy Creek where my mother grew up, there were springs everywhere, and the cedars grew in thick groves and had lush, prickly branches. And just about everyone on Brushy Creek was a relative who would gladly give permission to cut down a cedar for Christmas.

Off we would go, scouting for the best tree. "Don't cut the first one you come to," my mother would say. "Let's look for the very best tree."

One of the hazards of hunting for a Christmas tree in a grove of cedars is cutting down a good-looking specimen only to find a great-looking specimen a few yards away. Since we were always relying on the generosity of kinfolk, we were reluctant to leave a cut-down tree next to the stump of a better-looking one. Never mind that still a few yards farther and we would come across a fantastic-looking tree. How many stumps can you leave in your wake and still be considered a welcome cousin?

Eventually, we would settle on The Tree, and hack away until it could be carried off.

Back at the farmhouse on Killough Valley, furniture had to be scooted around to make way for the tree in the corner of the living room just inside the front door. The only fixture that was never pushed around was the upright piano against the north wall.

Next came devising a suitable stand for the tree. This involved some old boards nailed to form a cross and a few lengths of baling wire. The baling wire was an artifact of the era when bales of hay indeed were held together by wire. As the bales were cut apart to go into the feed troughs, the wires were saved and folded over a low beam in the barn. I can't begin to tell you all the uses we found for baling wire. But that, too, is another tale for another time. Suffice to say we would not have had an indoor Christmas tree without baling wire. I'm pretty sure of that.

Once the tree was upright in the living room, we put on the decorations. First the string of colored lights, the ones with the bulbs hot enough to set a dry tree ablaze in no time at all. Which is why we only turned on the lights for a few minutes at a time each night as Christmas approached. Next on the tree was the garland, followed by the delicate red globes that shattered easily and had to be replenished nearly every year.

Among the treasured tree ornaments in the storage boxes in our basement are two small metal bells. They are part of a set of probably a dozen bells that we put on the tree in Killough Valley. The paint is peeling from the bells, but the rusty hooks that looped over the cedar branches are still there. And, yes, the hooks are made of baling wire.

Last to go on the tree were the long strands of silver tinsel. "Don't just throw it on," my mother would say. "You have to put it on one strand at a time." Which took f-o-r-e-v-e-r.

Finally, we would stand back and admire the newly decorated tree. In a few days, a wrapped present or two would appear under the lowest branches. These were meant to be picked up and shaken, listening for any telltale rattles. All those years I begged for a bicycle I didn't even bother with the smaller-than-a-breadbox presents. They were much too little for the Western Flyer I longed for. Finally, God heard my earnest prayers. There it was, shiny with chrome and black paint and white rubber grips on the handlebars. And a red bow on the seat.

That was the year we had the prettiest cedar Christmas tree ever. There's simply no doubt about it. Any tree with a new bicycle parked in front of it is bound to be the best ever.

Don't you think?

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.