Musing: A Tree for Christmas

Tom Bradley’s chainsaw sputtered to a stop, the scent of sawdust thick in the crisp December air. His shoulders ached from another long day of clearing downed trees, casualties of Hurricane Helene that still littered the mountains.

With the practiced expertise of the last three months, a tractor operator slipped the tines of the grapple hook around the pile of branches and lifted them off the ground. As the tractor moved toward a waiting dump truck, a mangled Fraser fir slipped from its claws and clattered to the ground.

Tom moved to drag the tree into the pile for the next load, but paused to examine it. Once upon a time, it probably had been the perfectly shaped Christmas tree. Someone down in Charlotte or Atlanta would have paid a small fortune for a seven-foot tall beauty with lush branches.

The weight of falling trees, though, twisted and splintered its trunk. The impact ripped all the branches from one side. The roots had clung tenaciously to the rocky soil, but only enough to keep the remaining branches green. Now de-earthed, it wouldn’t survive the winter.

Tom ran his calloused hand along the once lush needles. They were soft and full, with that sweet, citrusy scent that meant Christmas in these mountains. Not once in his life had he bought a tree for the holiday, preferring to hike into the forest and find his own. He certainly would not change in a year when money was so tight.

But free time had been limited the last few months, too. Clearing the fallen timber meant working six-day weeks. In the seventh, he couldn’t rest, because he had his own home repairs to tend to. Christmas Eve was upon him, and the den remained treeless.

“Ain’t nobody gonna want you for their living room,” he murmured, “but you’re too pretty to leave here to rot.” He hoisted the tree into his truck bed.

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He should have known things were going too smoothly before the storm. They hadn’t had a stroke of bad luck in three years, not since the day Eleanor’s father had died. The man had taken his role as last living grandparent to heart, always available to tell his grandkids some story or teach them about the land. Anyone who made Tom’s kids so happy was someone easy for Tom to love. They had all been so heartbroken at his passing.

But in the midst of grief, they had a blessing. They moved into Eleanor’s old family home. At every turn, she saw memories of her happy childhood growing up. Tom hadn’t been as lucky in his own upbringing, so he desperately wanted for his own kids to have what she had had.

They poured their hearts and wallets into fixing the place up. Used their savings to put on a new roof. Converted the old barn to a workshop, where Tom crafted furniture. Good quality pieces, not the cheap crap mass produced with pressboard. By doing what he loved, and doing it at home, it allowed him to be the father he had always wanted. The father Eleanor had been so blessed to have. He walked their children to the school bus in the morning and met the bus in the afternoon.

Saturdays were the best family time. He patiently taught his son, Brent, how to use the woodworking tools. His son had a natural eye for the grain, instinctively knowing how and where to carve to bring out the beauty without cracking. Tom’s heart swelled with pride as the boy went from assisting to designing and building his own pieces.

His daughter, Sophie, was too young to operate the tools, but she did her part. During the warm months, she played in the creek just outside the workshop door. One day, she brought stones into the shop and held them up to a chest Tom was building, pretending they were handles.

At first, he had thought it amusing, but an idea grew within him. It took a few tries to learn how to drill a hole in the stones without cracking them. A bit more effort was required to fasten them. Once done, though, they made the perfect compliment to the handcrafted look.

And so they fell into a rhythm. Sophie searched for stones with interesting patterns and imperfections and brought them to the shop. Tom would polish and drill them while Sophie balanced on Brent’s old bicycle stored in a corner of the workshop. They would end the day with Brent pushing her around the yard on his bicycle, her feet not quite able to reach the pedals.

On Sunday mornings, he and Brent took time off to fly fish in the river, a pastime they had learned from Eleanor’s father. After a big mid-day meal, they would load that week’s creations onto a trailer and haul them to a consignment store down in Asheville. Tom would pick up a check for that week’s sales—the tourists snatched up the pieces as fast as they could make them—and the family would enjoy the afternoon in town.

Life was going better than Tom had ever hoped.

Then Helene dropped a tree across that brand new roof. The creek flooded its banks, further than it ever had, and washed the workshop downstream. They found the lathe smashed on rocks. Tools, the ones they could find, were buried in mud and silt. All their projects had been destroyed.

It took a week before crews opened up roads so they could get to Asheville. What they found was worse than they had imagined. The consignment store had three feet of mud on the floor from the Swannanoa River. Every piece of inventory had been washed away. The owner of the building didn’t know if they would reopen in the spring or not, but that was the best they could hope for. Driving away, though, Tom saw it didn’t really matter. The tourists were gone.

Back home, Tom and Eleanor made a pact. They didn’t have time to feel sorry for themselves. They were alive. Their family was safe. That was more than some people could say.

Tom was hired on with the tree crew the next day.

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Tom guided his pickup down the narrow gravel road and into the clearing. Daylight had nearly faded to dark, but he could still make out his small cabin, the bright blue tarp on the roof flapping in the wind. He’d have to get up there during the daylight to tighten it down again. Replacing broken windows had come first. Shingles would have to wait until spring.

The sound of an axe splitting wood rang through the crisp air. Sweat glistened on Brent’s bare chest as his breath puffed white in the frosty air. A stack of fresh-split oak and hickory grew beside him. The wood was green, gathered from Helene’s wrath, but it would be properly dried for the next winter. More than enough to keep them warm and sell some extra to the people who lived in the second homes dotting the hills. Locals would harvest their own wood, but the flatlanders always found it easier to buy.

Brent leaned the ax against a stump. He brushed his shaggy brown hair out of his face as he approached the pickup. Tom pulled the tree out of the bed and stood it upright with a thump of its trunk. Needles fluttered to the ground. “What do you think?”

His son raised an eyebrow as he examined the tree. He diplomatically said, “Gonna take a little work.”

“Most good things do.” Tom leaned the tree against the tailgate and stepped back to examine it. What had looked bad in the forest appeared even worse in their yard. Broken branches. Giant gaps. Twisted trunk. He wondered if it hadn’t been better to just leave the corner of the den void this year. The last thing they needed was another reminder of the storm inside the house.

Leave it to Brent to lift his spirits. “Sophie will be happy. She’s been wondering if we were going to have one.” His son hoisted the tree on his shoulder and marched up the wooden steps.

Inside the cozy den, flames licked the stone wall of the fireplace, radiating heat through the house. The scent of ham, beans, and cornbread floated through the air. Eight-year-old Sophie appeared first in the kitchen doorway, exclaiming in delight at the appearance of the tree. She raced barefooted into the den. After circling the tree, she wrinkled her nose. “It’s flat on one side.”

Eleanor wiped her hands on her apron and joined them. She placed a hand on Sophie’s shoulder. “Perfect for tucking up against the wall so it doesn’t take up so much room.”

Sophie shrieked in delight and supervised Brent positioning the tree just right. “Lean it to the right. No, your other right, silly. A little more. Toooooo much.”

Eleanor kissed Tom’s cheek and whispered. “The decorations were in the workshop.”

Tom’s heart sunk. “It’ll be pretty pathetic looking without them. You have any grand ideas?”

Eleanor laughed and squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll work some magic.”

They gathered around the old wooden table at the end of the kitchen, plates of steaming food in front of them. Eleanor planted the seeds as they ate. “I have some quilt squares I’ve been salvaging to make new blankets. With some loops of thread, we’ll hang those on branches.”

“Pinecones,” squealed Sophie. “There are bunches behind the house. Can we hang those?”

Brent leaned back in his chair. “This is going to sound weird, but what about some of my fishing flies?”

Sophie muttered, “Ew,” but Eleanor patted her son’s arms. “Brilliant idea. They will add the perfect color.”

They bantered ideas, laughing at some of the zaniest. Tom’s spirits lifted as he marveled at the joy in his kids’ voices as they brainstormed. The tree, he knew, would soon be covered with the most unusual decorations ever.

But something was still missing. Tom had an idea how to solve that, but he wasn’t ready to share.

With dinner complete, Brent and Sophie cleared the plates and washed dishes with only mild jibes at each other, thanks to Eleanor’s close supervision. Tom took advantage of their distraction to slip outside with a pair of metal coat hangers in hand.

In his workshop, he could easily have brought his idea to life. Now, he would have to be as inventive as the rest of the family. Under the light on the cab of his truck, he first straightened the hangers. With a sure hand, he used his tools to bend the wire at set intervals to form angles. The hardest part was forming a base, turning the wire into a coil. Once the shape came into view, he searched through his toolbox for a rag and a can of spray paint.

After a bit of struggle, he balanced his creation on the tailgate and stepped back to admire it. He was a woodworker, not a metalworker. “Not perfect,” he muttered to himself, “but that matches that old tree.”

Sophie heard him enter the house and slip off his boots. “What do you think, Daddy?”

Tom had been prepared to shower praise on their handcrafted decorations, but the sight stunned him into silence. The tree lacked blinking lights, but the flickering from the fireplace bathed it in a soft glow. The quilt squares shifted, reflecting their colors. The flies danced in a brilliant rainbow. The pinecones added depth and character. “Beautiful.”

Sophie squealed in delight, running around the tree and pointing out the various ornaments. When she ran out of steam, she stepped back and looked at the bare top. “I tried to find a star, but…”

Tom kneeled down beside her. “I might have a solution.”

“You do?”

“But I need your help.”

“Sure.”

“Climb up on your brother’s shoulders.”

Brent laughed and lifted his sister into the air. “Come on, munchkin.”

When she was settled, she towered over Tom. He opened the front door and grabbed his surprise. From the coat hangers, he had crafted the frame of a five-pointed star. An old rag had been stretched over the wire and then spray-painted a glittery silver.

Sophie giggled, her eyes wide with delight. “It’s perfect.”

With great care, Sophie placed the star atop the tree. It wouldn’t sit straight, no matter how much she tried. She leaned it left, and it wobbled. She tried to the right, and it drooped. She crimped the base with her hand, and the branch sagged. She finally just declared it perfect. Brent lowered her to the floor, and they settled onto the couch, admiring their work.

Not bad, thought Tom. He’d seen prettier trees decorated to the hilt, but this one felt special. He wanted to just sit and savor the moment, but that wasn’t easy on Christmas Eve with an eight-year-old in the house.

Sophie squirmed against her mother’s arms. “Is it present time?”

After getting a nod from Eleanor, Sophie raced to her room. She returned moments later with three river stones, polished to a sheen, and strung to strips of leather. Each stone was unique, with brilliant streaks of color and shining like a jewel.

Brent uttered a single word, “Cool,” and slipped it over his neck. The leather brown like his hair. The broad, emerald green rock complimented his eyes. Tom wasn’t sure Brent would wear it to school—teen boys had reps to maintain, of course—but his thanks to his sister sounded genuine.

Eleanor caressed her smaller stone as it sparkled in the firelight. So did the tears in her eyes. Tom had no doubt on that one—Eleanor would wear it every chance she got.

Tom took his into his hand and admired it with affection. The stone was a deep blue, like a calmly flowing river on a summer day. The leather strips crisscrossed it, securely holding it in their grip. “I’ll hang it from the mirror of my truck, so everyone will see it.” He could already imagine bragging to the work crew that his daughter had made that.

Brent went next. Two of his carving knives had been salvaged from the storm and he had put them to use. Using the near endless supply of wood strewn about the forest, he whittled gifts for each person.

Eleanor received a fox with a flowing, bushy tail. She oohed over its beauty. Sophie received her favorite animal, the elusive bobcat they saw only once or twice a year. She had wanted to get a photograph, but Tom had never been fast enough with his phone. Brent, though, had the image in his mind.

Tom’s black bear was exquisite. The artwork amazed him with how much Brent’s skills had developed. The face and eyes were so realistic they reminded him of the big male that wandered through their yard from time to time. The fur along the sides was striped in intricate detail. More bragging to the work crew was coming. He reluctantly set it down to retrieve Sophie’s present.

All summer, she had begged him to fix up Brent’s old bike for her. She hadn’t mentioned it since they had found it down river, smashed against the rocks. Her stoically not talking about it broke Tom’s heart more than if she had whined about the unfairness.

And so he resolved to make it happen. Rolling the bicycle into the house and watching her eyes grow big made all the late nights working on it worthwhile. She jumped up, hugged Tom, ran to Eleanor and hugged her, and raced back to Tom for a second hug before climbing onto the seat. The pedals were still a bit of a stretch for her legs, but she could reach. She didn’t notice the straightened frame, or the replaced spokes, but she sure loved the paint job. “Purple! I love purple.”

Brent laughed and said, “Thought you called it grape-L.”

“Nope. I’m grown up now.”

They laughed as she tried to pedal the bike around the den, nearly toppling a lamp and crashing into a chair. Eleanor saved the house by suggesting she ride it in the yard the next morning. Sophie reluctantly agreed and leaned the bike on its kickstand. She then sat on the floor beside it, admiring it with glowing eyes.

Eleanor disappeared into their bedroom. When she reappeared holding a fly rod, Brent’s eyes filled with tears. He did his adolescent best to choke them back as he asked, “Grandpa’s?”

Tom rested his arm around Brent’s neck. “That was his favorite. Always said it was magical. I believed it the way he could pull trout from the rivers.”

Eleanor sat beside her son. “It seems fitting you should have it.”

Brent seemed not to trust his voice, and couldn’t express his thanks with words, but the way he caressed the rod spoke volumes.

They spent the evening watching the fire dwindle and talked of fishing and bicycling. They listened to the wind gust around the house, ignoring the plastic rustle of the tarp, as they chatted about nothing and everything.

Later, Sophie padded into the den in her pajamas, and climbed up between Tom and Eleanor. Nestled into the crook of her father’s arm, she drifted toward sleep. Just when Tom thought he was going to have to carry her to bed, Sophie’s quiet voice said, “It’s the prettiest Christmas tree we’ve ever had.”

A little crooked. Gaps in the branches. Masked in homemade decorations. Seemed about right to Tom.