The Red Feather Christmas Tree

I was planning to rewrite this true Christmas story, get some illustrations made, and publish it as a little book, but I ran out of time. Next year. Meanwhile, here is a small Christmas gift for you. Hoping you have a very happy holiday. 

Love you, LaVonne

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Christmas changed for me when I was eleven years old.

Just like all kids this time of year, I was selfish and greedy, obsessed about the presents.

I had discovered the mother lode a few years earlier during winter vacation, while Mom was at work and Gramma was shopping. There they were on the top shelf of Gramma’s closet: boxes and boxes of gifts, all nicely wrapped. (Oh, yeah — I was sneaky too.)

So I pulled a chair over to the closet and clambered up. One by one, I reached on tiptoe and brought down the presents. They all had my name on them, wow! It was like Christmas, only a week early!

I carefully unwrapped each box to see what was inside, and just as carefully wrapped it again, sliding it back up on the shelf.

When Christmas morning came, I unwrapped my presents again, overacting my surprise.

“Oh, Mom, I love it! Thank you!”

But I didn’t fool her

From then on, she hid my presents at a friend’s house. Very frustrating!

Then, the year I turned eleven, Mom came home from work with bad news.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we can’t afford gifts this year. I’ve been laid off.”

The worried expression on her face was contagious.

“That’s okay,” I said in a rush, trying to make her feel better so I could feel better. “I don’t want anything.”

This was a side of me Mom hadn’t seen before.

“You don’t have to be sarcastic about it,” she said, sounding angry.

“No,” I said, “I really mean it, Mom. You don’t have to get me anything. It’s okay.”

She saw that I was telling the truth.

“Thank you!” she said with a big hug.

I was sympathetic but I was also scared

Christmas gifts were the least of my worries. What would we do without Mom’s paycheck? My father had died when I was six and we had scraped by on her wages as a cook ever since. But she had gotten a good job just a year earlier, managing a corporate executive dining room. We had finally been able to afford a small, rented house. Would we have to move back in with Gramma?

Each day, while Mom went out to look for work, I went to school and worried.

Winter vacation came, and I waited alone each day for her to come home. The news was never encouraging.

One day, Mom brought home a tiny, red feather Christmas tree

“We can’t afford a real tree,” she said, “but we can have this.”

It was actually quite beautiful, an eighteen-inch, red plastic cone covered with glitter, red feathers, and sequins, topped off with a tiny, white feather angel.

We put it on the coffee table, and for good measure, taped all the Christmas cards we had received, in the shape of a much bigger tree, onto the living room wall. With a green plastic garland draped between the cards, our house looked almost festive.

On Christmas Eve morning, Mom left as usual on her quest for work while I stared at the red feather tree.

This isn’t right, I thought. We need a real tree.

I remembered the temporary tree lot down the hill a few blocks away.

Maybe they’ll have something I can afford with my savings.

I counted out all my dimes, nickels, and quarters – one dollar and eighty three cents – and bundled up for the walk down the hill.

I could see my breath and feel my nostrils crinkle. It had been a mild winter so far, but a sudden cold snap had arrived just in time for a true, white Christmas.

Snow fell lightly as I trudged into the lot. A young man wearing a green plaid hat with ear flaps greeted me, a bemused smile on his lips, his nose red from the cold.

“I’m looking for a tree,” I told him, “but I don’t have much money.”

“Hmm,” he replied, stroking his chin in exaggerated thought. “Tell you what I’ll do. It’s Christmas Eve, so we need to unload the rest of them. You pick out the one you want. I’m sure we can work something out.”

I looked around. There weren’t many trees left, and the ones that were didn’t look good. I finally settled on a small, slightly crooked tree I thought I could carry back up the hill.

“How does three dollars sound?” asked the man.

My face fell. I pulled out the coins from my pocket and held them out.

“This is all I have,” I said. “Do you have a tree for this price?”

“Aww, that’s okay,” said the man. “I’ll sell it to you for a buck-fifty.”

I walked out of the lot happy, dragging my prize behind me.

By the time I got up the hill to our house, though, the path the tree had etched in the snow was lined with pine needles. The needle path followed me through the back door and into the living room. I would have to vacuum the carpet but I was excited.

It would be fun to surprise Mom with a real tree

I took the holiday box out of the closet and looked blankly at the pieces that made up the stand. How did they fit together? I had never paid attention when Mom put up trees in previous years.

There were three curved metal pieces, some nuts and bolts, and a shallow bowl. It looked simple enough. After a few tries, I managed to put the stand together correctly — or at least so that it didn’t fall down when I stood it on the three legs.

Lifting what was left of the tree, I set it upright in the bowl and tried to balance it while leaning over to tighten the bolts onto the trunk. I lost control and the tree fell over with a whoosh, spewing more needles all over the carpet.

Finally, I got the crooked tree up and steadied by the bolts, though leaning at a rakish angle.

Good enough, I told myself, and went to get a pitcher of water to pour into the bowl.

The tree was thirsty. By the time I had untangled the lights, the bowl was half empty. I filled it again and started hanging the string of lights in a downward spiral across the now-nearly naked branches. At least, I thought that was the way I’d seen Mom doing it in the past.

When I finished, they looked all right. Not great, but all right.

Then, attaching a wire hook to each ornament, I hung them on the tree — a shiny red bulb here and a glittering blue bulb there. We didn’t have fancy ornaments like my grandmother’s — antique, Swedish, simulated candles with water bubbling up inside them, ancient-looking reindeer and Santas, angel hair, and tinsel that had been carefully saved each year and placed on each branch, one by one.

We didn’t have those, but I was discovering that light and sparkle is easy to create with very little effort.

I finished and looked at the tree with a critical eye. To be honest, it was pathetic. But it was a real tree. That was what counted. The sun had gone down and it was dark outside. I plugged in the lights.

Like magic, the tree sparkled like all Christmas trees everywhere

The crooked lean of its branches, the poverty of ornaments, even the lack of needles, were hardly visible. It was beautiful.

I found an old, white sheet and draped it around the base of the tree — the perfect final touch. Just as I turned off the vacuum cleaner and put it back in the hall closet, I heard the car pull into the driveway. I hurried to make a few final adjustments.

But wait — there was no angel for the top! What could I put there? I looked around and saw the red feather cone on the coffee table with its white feather angel on top. I grabbed it and placed it on the topmost branch.

Just that moment, the front door clicked. In walked Mom, arms loaded with two big packages. I stood by the tree, waiting for her to look up.

“You’ll never guess what happened—” she started to say, pulling the key out of the door.

“Merry Christmas, Mom!”

She stopped and turned toward me and the tree, her mouth hanging open. The tiny angel glittered white from atop the red feather tree.

“You — you got a real tree?!”

“Yes!”

She dropped the packages on the couch and covered her face with her hands.

“Mom,” I said, alarmed, “don’t cry!”

I went to her and reached my arms around her soft, round body.

She hugged me back.

“No,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “They’re happy tears. What a beautiful present you have given me. Thank you!”

She gave me a big kiss on the cheek.

“And now I have a present for you! Two, actually. You’ve been so good during all this, I couldn’t not get you something.”

She gestured at the packages on the couch.

“Mom, we can’t afford these. I don’t need anything, honest.”

“Well,” she said, smiling, “I didn’t get a chance to tell you what happened today. I got a job!”

“You did?!”

“And not just any job. I’m going to manage an executive dining room in a big company.”

Whatever that was, it sounded really good. We hugged again and went into the kitchen to make hot cocoa together.

Afterwards, in front of our three trees — the Christmas card tree on the wall, the real tree, and the red feather tree above it — I opened my presents: a huge, three-foot tall bride doll and a real baby bassinet. They weren’t at all what I wanted — how did Mom not know that I didn’t like dolls? — but I didn’t care. I overacted, making a big fuss over them and thanking her profusely. This time, Mom didn’t seem to catch on.

It was a corny, sentimental Christmas, just the way they’re supposed to be

And the happiest I’ve ever known.