If I close my eyes I can see myself walking through the pastures on the farm where I grew up. Those are the days immediately following Thanksgiving and I’m following my father and brothers searching for the perfect Christmas. Always a cedar.

Our search took us through acres of broom straw and blackberry bushes that lined the fence rows looking for the perfect tree.

From a distance we’d think we had found the perfect one, but upon closer inspection most turned out to be two or more trees clumped together.

Some looked good on one side, but lacking on the other, so we trekked on.

Daddy carried the axe while we scouted the fence rows. He wore his workday overalls with an old brown hat. My oldest brother wore the newest pair of jeans while my middle brother and I wore successive hand-me-downs.

Patches held the knees of mine together as I trudged behind struggling to see over the tops of the broom straw. I should add patches and cockleburs because by the end of our adventure we were always covered with cockleburs and beggar’s lice.

It wasn’t unusual for us to settle on a tree by the time we reached the spring just up the hill above the swamp. By then we were worn down and tired of the weeds and thorns.

My grandfather had driven a large hollowed out log into the center of the spring and scooped out the sand in the middle so folks could use the metal dipper hung on a sapling nearby to get a drink of water.

With our tree in tow we made our way to a path along the ridge that led back towards the barn and on to our house on the hill.

Once home, Daddy would shake out the tree, saw off the bottom and trim the lower limbs before sticking it in a bucket and carrying it into the house.

By the time we made it inside Mother had pulled out the ornaments from the top shelf of her closet.

She placed the glass ornaments on the tree, securing them as best she could to keep them from shattering on the hardwood floor below.

After that was done my brothers and I threw silver tinsel all over it as high as we each could reach. By that time the aroma of cedar had filled our home with the scent of Christmas.

Over the years most of Mother’s ornaments found their way to the trash can after surrendering to gravity and crashing onto the floor.

The pink and blue Angel hair (spun glass) that adorned the mantle was lost somewhere over the years after Mother moved away following the death of my father.

The cedars on the farm gave way to pines as the decades passed. The barn melted into the earth and the axe Daddy carried disappeared a long, long time ago.

Left are only memories of Christmases I experienced as a child.

Memories of running through broom straw. Memories of following my brothers and my father. Memories of watching my mother hang those glass ornaments and spreading Angel hair.

Precious memories, how they linger.

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Rick Algood
December 10, 2021