The Christmas Tree

by
Nora Blan Stanley
December 1997
Daddy and I sat in the front room. We didn't talk much. We never really did carryon a conversation. At least none that I could remember.

The red hot coal stove gave off welcome heat that went through me and began to warm my bones. The kindling in the dynamite box from the coal mines made a nest-like seat for me. I pulled my white and brown cotton skirt over my cold, briar-scratched legs. "Britches are for boys," Daddy always said.

Being a boy would have been good, and it wasn't that I hadn't tried. In my ten years, I had spent hours behind the house crying as I tried to kiss my elbow. "Sure way to become a boy," I was told. I promised myself that if I ever broke my arm, I was going to kiss that elbow before I got to the doctor. But enough planning for the future.

I couldn't seem to stop looking at the Christmas tree I had chopped down and decorated earlier that day. The warmth of the stove had begun to coax the fresh scent out of the green branches. And the light from the 'laddin lamp gave those newly-treasured Christmas balls a dreamy glow just like I had read about in the books at school.

I thought about how I got those Christmas balls ... Daddy had taken me to McCurtain, and we were in Irvin Hendrix' store.

"Look at this one, Honey," the store lady cackled out as she held up a shiny gold ball. "The Christmas decorations are in. Just look at this lovely glass Christmas ball, and we have lots of others, too!" The decorations, especially the glass Christmas balls, looked like something from another world.

"Daddy, can we buy some?" I asked. "They are only a nickel apiece."

"You know better'n to beg," Daddy warned. "Yes, Sir," and I didn't say anything else.

Then Daddy thought for a long time. "Okay, pick out three, and make it snappy. We don't have all day."

"Besides that, we're not going to have a Christmas tree," he mumbled as he dug down into his faded overalls' pocket, brought out a quarter and handed it to me.

"And bring me back the change," he reminded as I hurried over to the lady holding the Christmas ball.

That was three days ago, and now I sat looking at the decorated tree with the Christmas balls and red and green paper chain I had made at school.

Yes, I guess the big gold, red and silver balls I had picked were my Christmas miracle. It didn't matter that we didn't have electricity for lights. And right then I didn't care if our front room didn't have rugs and other pretty things like the pictures in books.

"Well, I see you got us a Christmas tree," Daddy finally mentioned.

Lord, I nearly jumped out of my skin when Daddy's voice broke the silence.

"Yes, Sir."

"You know, that looks like my little pine tree growing in back of the field," he said. "I've been watering it for years. It's the only pine tree on our land."

Now this was a fine time to find out that Daddy had a favorite tree. My beans and tater supper turned into a big wad of nails poking me in the middle of my stomach. Maybe I would just fallout of that kindling box and die. I sure didn't feel very healthy.

The worst thing in the world was facing Daddy when he held that razor strap in his hand. Where did that strap come from and what was it for--except whippings? The strap hung beside the dresser in Daddy and Mother's room, and when that strap was snapped off the nail on the wall, somebody was going to get it.

"Yes, Nacie," mused Daddy, using his pet name for me, "that sure does look like my little pine tree."

Well, I felt somewhat akin to George Washington. "I'll whoop you for lying to me quicker than anything else," Daddy had always said. And he was good at keeping his promises.

I sat quietly and waited. and thought. The skin on my head began to sting. I knew Daddy would be going back to his tree. Not tonight, but some day.

"Yeah, I have pulled the grass from around that tree and watered it during the dry spells. I thought that maybe someday when the tree gets bigger, we could go over there and have a picnic under it," Daddy went on and on.

A picnic! Was Daddy crazy or something. He didn't know what a picnic was. I looked at him in the dim light. He was just a fat ole coal miner in overalls with black circles around his eyes.

Why didn't he stop talking about that tree? I was sick of it, and I was scared out of my wits.

I knew I had to tell him that it was his tree and there wasn't ever going to be a picnic under it. Getting ready to tell the truth, I felt like I was about to jump off a cliff.

"Daddy," I plunged, "it is the pine tree from the back of the field."

"Oh, NorBelle, you didn't cut down that pine tree did you?"

"Yes, Sir."

Daddy looked straight ahead. He was leaning back in plastic-covered platform rocker, hands folded behind He seemed to be looking far away.

Finally, he said, "It's the best looking Christmas tree I've ever seen."

"I think of Daddy often, especially during the Christmas season. The carol, '0, Christmas Tree' conjures up fond and soulful memories of Daddy, especially of the pine tree. And I realize that Daddy was a crusty coal miner with a not-often-seen, tender soul.'

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This is an incident Nora experienced as a young girl growing up on the Haskell/LeFlore County Line Road some four miles east of McCurtain. Nora is the daughter of Kenneth Clyde and Eddie Belle (Ingram) Blan, growing up with six brothers and one sister.

Nora graduated McCurtain High School, went to University of North Texas, Denton, Texas and earned degrees in education and journalism. While attending this University she met Bob Stanley, journalism professor at the time. Nora and Bob married after her graduation and a worked for a short stint as a newspaper reporter.

Nora and Bob worked 10 years as missionaries to the Philippines, and 20 years in Richmond, Virginia with the Southern Baptist Foreign Mission Board.

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