Three Trees

Three years ago, my husband and I decided that we should take advantage of the abundant crop of Eastern Red Cedar trees in our woods for our Christmas tree. Eastern Red Cedar trees are considered an invasive nuisance because they steal water from other plants and they grow quickly on cleared land. The Nature Conservancy has sounded the alert: if something isn't done soon, red cedars will cover more than one-third of Oklahoma's landscape. We know that because of the number of tiny red cedars we see in the woods and because of the giant trees in an area we call the "cedar meadow" in a ravine behind our house.

Nonetheless, both of us like the pesky tree, enough that when we built our house, we cut a hole in our west deck so that a red cedar can grow through it. That tree was our first Christmas tree in our new house. David put lights on it and we put our gifts next to the glass wall that separates the inside from the outside. We had a live tree and a great first Christmas-in-the-house memory.

After that first Christmas, we reverted to our practice of buying a tree from a Christmas tree lot. Neither of us is a fan of artificial Christmas trees, no matter how real they look. We'd stop in Tulsa, walk around the lot and find a tree that we thought would look perfect in our house. The high school student working in the lot would give the trunk a fresh cut, wrap the tree and stow it in our car. We'd drive 30 miles home, put it up and decorate it.

But three years ago, we decided to cut our own tree. One November day, we set off to the woods to find a Christmas tree. We found a very tall one. We put it next to the spiral staircase in our game room. I had to stand on the steps to decorate the top and I loved it. For the first time ever, I could get our entire collection of Christmas ornaments on our tree--ornaments from our families, our friends, my students and ornaments that just seem to appear in the collection. It was a glorious tree. I spent hours admiring it.

When we started searching for our tree last year, I knew exactly what I wanted--another giant tree. I was overruled by the Man with the Axe. Too big and messy, he said. So, shades of my childhood (See Bossy Betty, Dec. 24), we ended up with a tree small enough to put on our pool table. We decorated it with maybe 10% of our ornament collection--pretty, but I didn't like it much. I thought of it as an old people's tree--the kind of tree people get when their kids and grandkids are grown and no longer come home for the holidays, but they feel morally obligated to put up a tree. Somehow a small tree sitting on our pool table in the game room didn't inspire the Christmas spirit.

The Christmas Spirit seemed particularly important to us this year, perhaps because of a Scrooge-like pronouncement from a family member: no Christmas presents, no Christmas cooking, maybe not even a Christmas tree at their house.

The Friday after Thanksgiving we headed into the woods to find our tree. We trotted, pulled by our two Beagles who love the woods, towards the back of the property, checking out cedar trees. We walked around each candidate, checking for shape and height, picturing it in the living room, not the game room, covered with lights, ornaments and tinsel. Near a rock outcropping, we discovered a grove of three perfect trees. We chose one, leaving the other two for Christmases 2011 and 2012, and dragged it back to the house.

The tree stood at the west end of our living room for a month, lights glowing, reflecting off my mother-in-law's antique ornaments, the ornaments from our first Christmases together and the collection given to us over the years from friends. I loved standing outside and seeing it through the glass on a dark night.

I know that the Christmas spirit doesn't reside in trees or gifts or cooking. I know that Christmas is a symbol for hope in the darkest time of the year, an affirmation of the belief that life will return. I know that Christmas is in our hearts and the love and warmth we find with friends and family this time of year.

And I know that our third home-cut tree--the most perfect tree so far--symbolizes all of that.

Happy New Year!

Turning the Last Page on the Calendar

I was at least a week late turning to December on the Bank of McLouth calendar I have on my refrigerator. Nothing unusual in that—I'm not prompt at changing calendars and sometimes I wonder how long calendars will be around. I'm more likely to check the date on my iPhone or iPad or computer than look at a calendar.

But this change was different. As I turned the calendar, taking it down from the refrigerator, lifting the year's photo of a herd of cattle staring straight ahead, and dropping December to cover November, I realized that this might be my last Bank of McLouth calendar.

Every year, Mom gave each of us a calendar as part of our Christmas present. Sometimes the photos are cute kittens or pastoral farm scenes, but often, as in the 2010 calendar and the cattle, the photo, captioned Crossbred Cattle, represents the business of farming.

The calendar itself is all about the business of farming. When I change the month on my other calendar, I lift the old month to reveal the new month. Not so on the Bank of McLouth. Instead of another pretty picture, the back of each month is an accounting form for the previous month. It's a working calendar. Lift the yearly photo and you can keep track of Cash Received and Cash Paid Out. The Cash Paid Out columns take up more space than the Cash Received ones.

McLouth, Kansas is my hometown. It's a tiny farming town in Northeast Kansas, population about 800. I graduated from McLouth High School in a class of 22 and I think I'm related to a majority of the population. My sisters and I went to college, married non-McLouthians and moved away. My parents retired from the farm and moved to Oskaloosa, but stayed faithful to the Bank of McLouth, an institution which supported them through good years and bad and their five daughters through college.

For many years, I made the four hour plus drive to Kansas to visit my parents once a month, help around the house, run errands and take them shopping in Lawrence and visit my sister, the Nearest Daughter, who has assumed with grace and dignity, the responsibility of parent caretaker. Every Saturday I visited, Mom and I would drive to McLouth to go to the bank. The bank is social center and Mom and I always had good visits with the people who work there and often with other people who came to do bank business on Saturday morning.

Five and a half years ago, my dad died and almost a year ago Mom moved into assisted living. We sold the house, built by my grandfather, where my parents had lived for more than 25 years.

Transitions happen. Some are easy; some are difficult; some take time to adjust to. The Bank of McLouth calendar tracks time and transitions. I wonder what transition the Last Calendar symbolizes. I suspect it's a significant one.

Cooper and Santa Claus

Our almost-two-year-old Beagle, Cooper, has an issue with Santa Claus—a particular soft stuffed Santa Claus from my late mother-in-law's collection.

Last Christmas was Cooper's first Christmas with us. He had come to live with us in September, a 7-month-old lively, lovable and loving, but untrained, Beagle. My husband and I decorated for Christmas, putting his mother's Santa collection on the dining room table: Santa Claus in a rocking chair; a Santa Claus candy jar and four matching mugs—more ceramic and glass Santas, except for the one soft stuffed Santa with a jingle bell attached to his hat.

Maybe it was the jingle bell that attracted Cooper or the soft texture of the body. For whatever reason, he loved Santa. He'd trot across the dining room table (a forbidden activity), pick up Santa and, head high and tail wagging, hop off the table. Sometimes he'd get to play Humans Chasing Beagle until he dropped Santa; other times, we'd find Santa on the floor, on the sofa or on a chair. Cooper would shake Santa and play with him, but Santa never showed any signs of injury, amazing since Cooper chewed on everything and left holes in everything.

This year, we put the Santas out again. Cooper wasn't interested. Then one evening we came home from visiting our neighbor to find Santa laying on the floor. No injuries, although a piece of velcro was loose.

The next morning, David asked me if Santa was ok. I picked him up, checked the loose velcro and noticed a switch between Santa's feet. I turned it on and Santa began to play "Rudoph the Red Nosed Reindeer," dancing around on the table.

Immediately, Cooper had his paws on the table, looking intently and curiously at the dancing Santa. It stopped; he barked; it started again. It stopped. David clapped. Santa started dancing and playing.

We put Santa on the floor to see what Cooper would do. Cooper was curious, but timid. He barked (which of course started Santa up again) and finally mustered enough courage to creep close enough to Santa to sniff him.

Several hours later, I was in the kitchen when I heard "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." I rounded the corner and saw Cooper standing in the middle of the table, his mouth around Santa, his legs bent for a jump onto the floor. I reprimanded Cooper and retrieved Santa. Before long, I'd hear Santa again. We played the reprimand and retrieval game several times.

Santa is now safely out of Beagle reach.