Dad was always the first one up on those cold winter mornings. He lit the wood stove and the lanterns so that the house would warm and no one would fall down the stairs in the dark. By the time the youngest ones climbed out of bed he had breakfast made, a pot of porridge big enough to feed a family of eleven.
Mom made the tea from loose leaves, steeping it until it was good and strong. She folded the empty foil tea package and placed it into the drawer.
“Another one for the collection, Willie.” She said.
Dad nodded and sipped his tea from the saucer.
Mom started clearing the dishes from the table, and that was our cue to hurry on. Concentrating on our tasks was more difficult with Christmas only a few days away. I could hardly sleep, thinking about Christmas morning. We'd come down over the stairs to see our socks hung in the kitchen, all lumpy with apples and oranges and other treats. Focusing on chores was near impossible, wondering what Santa would bring. This year I hoped to get a new doll, one of my very own. I had one that used to be Kathleen’s, but the arm kept falling off, and there was a bare patch on the head where Nancy tried to give her a haircut.
Still, Christmas or not, there was work to be done. The chickens and sheep needed to be fed, the floors needed washing and so did the clothes. I was sweeping out the inside porch when Dad came in, his eyes sparkling. He held a big piece of tin, probably left over from someone’s roof. Dad had been collecting little shiny bits for weeks and was stashing them in his workshop. He never spoke of it, and when anyone asked about it, he just pretended not to hear, but we all knew he was down there working on something big.
The workshop was the most organized place in the house. Nestled in the basement, it was Dad’s own little corner of the house. It was cluttered and smelled of sawdust and was full of interesting bits and pieces.
I never went into the workshop while Dad was working. His thoughts were like marbles in a pouch, beautiful and bright, best kept gathered close. With the slightest nudge that pouch would fall open and the thoughts would scatter. It took him a long time to gather them again.
I would sit quietly outside the room with my back against the door frame and listen to him work. I knew each of the tools by sound: the gentle whir of the hand drill, the shush of the plane, the musical zip and warble of the saw. Dad moved from one workbench to another, tutting and murmuring to himself.
Sometimes he would invite me in to look at his projects. He would let me drill holes in scrap wood, or collect the shavings into the wood box. But these last few days the workshop door was kept firmly closed. I could hear the gentle tap tap of the little hammer, and Dad humming as he worked, but nothing more.
The rest of us were kept busy with Christmas preparations. Mom was in the kitchen night and day, cooking and baking. That left the cleaning up to the rest of us. The boys spent their time outdoors, cutting and stacking the wood. Dad spent every moment he could spare in the workshop.
Two days before Christmas, Dad went off into the woods to find our tree. He left just as the sun rose and returned within an hour with the first offering. He called to Mom and she came out to the porch, flipping the dish towel up onto her shoulder. She sized up the tree, and then put her hands on her hips.
“It’s shockin’ scrawny, isn’t it?”
Dad said nothing. He put the tree to the side of the house and went off again to find another one. This went ahead every year. Dad would find a tree and bring it back for Mom’s approval. It usually took three or four attempts before Mom decided she liked the first one best. Dad would then strip some boughs from the others before putting them on the wood pile. He bored holes in the trunk of the Christmas tree and inserted the extra boughs to fill it out.
On Christmas Eve morning, after breakfast was done, we sat at the kitchen table with scraps of paper saved up over the year. Some we folded into star shapes, others were cut into snowflakes. Mom and the older girls threaded string through them so that they could be hung on the tree. Dad, who headed to the workshop directly after breakfast, returned with a small box full of wooden stars. He dumped them onto the table and then went to the kitchen drawer and took out the stack of empty tea packages. With great care, he showed us how to cover the stars with the wrappers so that the silvery lining made them shine. We were thrilled with our new decorations. This year our tree would be the most beautiful.
That afternoon, Dad and the boys put up the tree. It was lovely, and smelled so sweet. We took out our decorations, most made of wood or paper. There were a few glass ornaments that were very special. Only Mom was allowed to handle them. We were too little, she said, and the boys were too careless. And of course we had our shiny new silver stars to hang on the tree.
It was getting dark as we finished, and Mom lit a few lanterns so that we could admire our work. It was a beautiful tree, perhaps our best ever.
Dad returned from his workshop and placed the box he was carrying on the floor. It was full of little tin ornaments. There were stars and snowflakes and wreaths. Some of the smaller pieces were cut into circles and strung together like little rain drops. Each one had been polished to perfection. We squealed with delight as we hung the new decorations.
Dad stood back and watched. When we were done he sized it up from all angles, hummed and tutted, and shook his head. He stomped off to his workshop again, and returned with his flashlight. Down on his belly, he wiggled under the tree and fit the flashlight so that it pointed up through the branches. Then, he switched it on.
The beam from the flashlight caught every one of those shiny tin ornaments. The tree sparkled and shone. No one said anything. We all just stood, staring at our glistening tree. It looked to us like someone had gathered the night stars and scattered them on every bough. Dad had done that for us.
I don’t remember if I got my doll that year, or what my stocking held on Christmas morning. The things you think are special and important aren’t always so. Those things fade away with time, but the truly important things, they stay.
All I remember about that Christmas is that magical tree, and the love of the man who made it happen.
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Hoping your Holiday Season is Merry and Bright.
Laurita xo
There are several Popsicle stick creations, lovingly assembled by all three kids in their time. My favourites are the triangle reindeer, and the rickety, lopsided Christmas tree (at least I think it's a Christmas tree). There are a few paper snowflakes, and one lumpy cotton ball thingy that may have been a snowman at one time. 
The most special are the things that aren't really ornaments at all. Three pairs of baby shoes from each of our kids, and one little boot that belonged to hubby. The pacifier that our son just wouldn't give up. Some tiny Christmas teddy bears. An old key our youngest likes to call Santa's Magic Key. Special pictures of our family. This year I'm adding a fork and spoon that belonged to Jonathan as a child.
I found the package under the stairs. It was large and heavy
and marked plainly with big black letters: Bird Seed. I took some
upstairs and spread them carefully across the backyard,tiny specks of yellow and brown mixed with kernels of white and oily black.
You can't escape it now; the Christmas season is in full swing. Once December hits, it's tinsel and fruitcake and holly as far as the eye can see. This is shaping up to be a very different sort of season with a macabre twist, as though Halloween is not quite ready to retract its claws.
