Reprinted from a family newsletter sent to friends in December 1967. written by Willah Weddon

It wasn’t too soon before Christmas, and it wasn’t too late. It was just the right time to bring home a Christmas tree. Father stopped to pick one from the dwindling collection offered by the Lions Club on our town square and carefully inspected each tree. There were half a hundred of them, all laid in rows, and they were all very little. It took a long time to pick one. Finally, he found one that was the tallest of them all, although it was as round as it was tall and thick as a bush. Paying the man in charge four dollars, Father put the little tree in the trunk of his new 1965 Buick Riviera and drove home.

The children gathered around as he pulled the tree out and stood it up. It was shorter than the smallest child. There were needles all over the inside of the trunk.

“We’ll put it in a bucket of water and let it soak,” Father said. “Then the needles will stop falling.”

“And maybe it will grow,” Alex said hopefully.

They tried to sweep the needles out of the trunk with a whisk broom. They stuck very tight to the upholstery, and when they came loose, the needles jabbed the children’s fingers. Father got one under his fingernail.

“These are miserable little needles,” he determined. Then he had to saw a piece off the bottom of the tree and trimmed a few lower branches so it fit into the water bucket. The tree sat in the water behind the house for a week. Each night, when the children got off the school bus, they inspected it. The needles continued to drop.

“It’s getting shorter,” Alex wailed.

“I don’t think it wants to be our Christmas tree,” Patrice said thoughtfully.

“It’s a miserable little tree,” Amy confirmed. Mother tried to console them.

“It will be nice when we get it in the front room.”

“But we’ve always had a big, beautiful one,” Patrice insisted. “We’ve got to do something.”

That Saturday Father announced, “Tomorrow we will put up the tree.”

The children looked at each other and nodded their heads. They had thought of something. Early in the morning, Patrice said she was going for a ride on her horse, Amidore. Alex agreed to go with her. It was cold and blowing. There was snow on the ground. Amidore pawed with her front hooves. She did not like the steel bit in her mouth. They did not put a saddle on her because they were going to ride double. Alex crawled up behind Patrice. The warmth of the animal felt welcome in the cold. Lad, the Collie, and Snoopy, the hound, followed along behind as they headed north into the fields toward the woods.

As they rode by a swale, two reddish-brown deer bounded out with their white tails waving like flags. As they leapt away, Snoopy bayed.

Father bundled up and went out to put the little tree in the standard so he could bring it into the house. It did not quite fit. He had to saw off more branches. When it finally went in, it skewed stubbornly to one side. He had to saw off a little more from the base. Still crooked. His hands grew cold. The stubs on the unyielding tree scraped and scratched his fingers. Father let out a yell. “Where are the children? They’ve always helped before.”

Inside the house, Mother shook her head sadly. “We’ve always had such a happy time putting up the decorations. This miserable little tree is making our Christmas miserable too.”

She put the potatoes in the oven with the chicken and decided to bake a cake—a treat to make everyone feel better. Suddenly Amy called down from upstairs. “Look out the window. Here they come.”

Alex was dragging a beautiful blue spruce behind him. Snoopy followed. Patrice came along leading Amidore. Lad trailed them all.

“See what we found, Dad,” they called out. “One of our own.”

Father looked up. He’d planted some pine trees a few years ago, way back by the woods. They had started to grow. But one long, cold winter the deer had nibbled the tops. Everyone thought they had killed the baby trees. He’d forgotten about them. Patrice had seen some growing when she had been out riding last summer. Remembering this, she’d told Alex, and they’d decided to go and see how big the trees had become. Alex had taken his Boy Scout hatchet along, just in case. This was a beautiful tree. Father smiled. Then he grabbed what was left of the little tree he had been trimming and sawing and shortening. He tossed it far over the eastern downhill slope of our hilltop back yard we called “the bank.”

The brittle collection of needles made a nasty sound as it landed. After dinner, the family decorated their new tree. Pine sap oozed from the tips of the branches and filled the rooms with the smell. Perfectly shaped, it reached nearly to the ceiling of the parlor. They put the star on top and admired it while enjoying chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream.

“It’s our own tree too,” Father said with pleasure. “Grown on our own farm.”

“There are more, not as large, but they will grow,” Patrice and Alex told him. “This one seemed just right for us.”

“Thank goodness we don’t have to put up with that miserable little tree,” Amy sighed.

“Shhh,” Father warned her. “That little bush might hear you, come back over the bank, and counterattack.”

Everyone laughed. It was a merry, merry Christmas after all.