Some stories of Christmases past are worth retelling like this one from my husband’s past. He is dead now, so this memory of his is particularly poignant. We present this to you for your Christmas present.
At an East Texas Christmas 70 years ago aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins and friends gathered at Grandpa Ruffo’s farm.
A delegation of youngsters respectfully approached Ruffo who was enthroned in front of the fireplace – possibly napping. Grandpa opened his eyes and nodded his acknowledgment of us.
Cousin Betty approached, “Grandpa Ruffo, will you take us into Palestine tomorrow, to buy a Christmas tree?”
“Nope.” Eyes closed. Subject closed.
Utter dismay. Tears fell. Christmas without a store-bought tree which might lead to the worst-case scenario – no store-bought presents.
The next morning, after a sumptuous breakfast cooked on Grandma Ruby’s wood burning stove, Grandpa Ruffo wiped the gravy off his chin, made eye contact with me and said, “Son, get Donald Clyde. Then go to the barn and get an axe, a hatchet, that length of halter rope, the bow saw and load the truck.” Donald Clyde and I were halfway to the barn before Grandpa finished speaking.
Ruffo owned an International Harvester pick-up. No tailgate, no bumpers, multiple dings, right fender held in place with baling wire and a crack in the windshield running from the lower left, making multiple loops and disappearing in the upper right-hand corner. When the sun caught the loops, they spelled a Polish obscenity – or so we were told.
Away we went – around the great sycamore trees, down the lane, across the country road and out the gap, alongside the new potato field to the next gap, to the largest corn field in the state of Texas. Then, Ruffo turned the truck across the rows.
The front and rear axles were welded directly to the frame. The tires were eight-ply commercial, maintained at 75 psi. It rode like a brick. On a bumpy road, the ride compared to that of a roller coaster – and we were crossing a corn field.
The first few rows weren’t too bad. Then, BOTH axles hit the rows. Grandpa said, “Boys, keep an eye on the tools. If they bounce out, we’ll have to go back for them.” Grandpa had a weird sense of humor.
Suspended against the roof line, I looked back. The axe was buried into the truck’s wooden bed. The bow saw was spinning around the handle at about 2,000 RPMs. Looked good to me.
We finally hit the semi-level pasture and drove to the tree. Donald Clyde and I stood in awe before a six-foot-wide by 10-foot-tall natural holly tree. Each green leaf personally hand-polished by the Edwards’ leprechauns. There were hundreds of thousands of berries, all brighter red than a freshly waxed fire engine.
Grandpa quietly said, “OK, boys, let’s take her down, load her up and get her back to the house.” He chose a smoother route back so as not to lose any berries.
Grandma met us at the door with an old sheet so to wrap and cinch down the branches to get the tree through the door. Aunt Ruby was popping popcorn. Mother was gathering needles and white thread. Uncle Slim was making a tree stand. Uncle Jessie was laying out packages of colored construction paper. Aunt Mary brought out a box of white paste that kids loved to eat. Uncle Charles was looking for the “tin foil.”
Soon, popcorn ropes draped back and forth around the tree. Alternating kernels were dipped in food coloring for an extra festive look. Colored construction paper chains ran between the popcorn ropes. Cardboard was cut into shapes of stars, moons, icicles and I don’t know what else. They were all wrapped in “tin foil” and hung from the branches with straightened out paper clips. My 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 brought out her heirloom China doll now wearing a gold halo, silver wings and a beautiful long white dress. Ruffo climbed the ladder and tenderly placed the angel atop the tree. Late on December 23, the tree was officially declared decorated.
Christmas Eve, everyone came into the living room. Ruffo banked the fire in the fireplace, somebody turned out every light around the house. The men went out on the porch, and then filed back in, each carrying a bucket of water or sand. The women tested the stability of every candle and lit them. Flames danced across the red berries, the shiny green leaves and the “tin foil” ornaments. There were a thousand points of shimmering light.
Uncle Bedford’s rich bass voice rang out as he led us in two stanzas of Silent Night. After that, the candles were quickly extinguished, and the kids were sent to bed so Santa could come.
I have no idea what toys I received that year. But the memory of that Christmas holly tree was the best gift of all and will stay with me for all my days.
