Bringing Christmas in from the Swamp

Most years, our search for a Christmas tree was a challenge of thrifting. We always got our tree much closer to Christmas than most folks do. Sometimes a week before. Sometimes less. This always meant that tree sales of already-cut trees were somewhat discounted. We would find the perfect (maybe a little misfit) tree at a great bargain, throw it in the truck and make it into the best Christmas tree that ever was. That includes the year our misfit tree was so crooked it needed to be tied to the door knob of the unused door behind it to keep it from toppling over. Then again, I always say the best memories are not made because things go perfectly as planned. 

Me as Jo March in the Swamp 

Some years we visited those places where you could cut your own tree. Up and down the rows we went, zig zagging to find the one that was just right. One year this place was a friend's tree line that needed thinning. Options were more limited that round, but we found the perfect one anyways. I'm not sure there is such a thing as the perfect tree. The traditions, memories, and adventures are what make each one perfect.

But the years that were the most memorable were the few we went to the swamp. When Pa’s mama, my Grandma Nina, was young and lived down in the hollow. Grandma saw neighbor Ronald Joslin’s cedar Christmas tree, and it was the most beautiful tree she had ever seen. It smelled amazing and seemed to be perfect in every way. She tried a few times over the years, but it never did happen. Grandpa likely had a few cedar Christmas trees growing up. Their trees came from the swamp on the farm there. No one is around anymore to ask what for of trees they had in those days.

Grandma in a seat of roots made for a Fairy Queen

The story goes that while out hunting for a tree in the swamp, one of my uncles climbed up a cedar tree to cut the top off for a Christmas tree. He fell out of the tree and no cedar tree was to be had that year either. You see, Cedar trees grow a little sparse in branches and usually thicken up nicer towards the top. If you cut them at the ground like a regular Christmas tree there won’t be any branches at the bottom and the will likely be brown. But if you cut them further up the trunk, you get the best results, but only if you stay in tree long enough to cut it.

The swamp that is near and dear to us is made up of small bits of acreage all pieced together over time by my uncle and my cousins. In the old, old days, folks in the nearest town to the swamp all owned their lot in town and a small bit of swamp for cutting firewood. Nowadays, a few of these homes still have the swamp acreage attached. Most folks in modern times don’t have much use for this tiny bit of swamp. It is difficult to traverse both in the physical sense of putting your foot on solid ground, and in the geographical sense that it is incredibly easy to get lost. Pa got mixed up while hunting there one year and used the sound of the highway to navigate him back out to the road. My cousins once dragged a dead deer in a circle in the swamp while trying to use a GPS unit. Uncle Ed, an accomplished surveyor, prefers his trusty compass, and is happy to buy the little bits of swamp here and there creating the perfect place to hunt for a cedar Christmas tree. Provided it freezes hard enough to set foot easily in the swamp.

Pa and the beastly tamarack tree

Uncle Ed’s swamp was land locked, so we hiked in across a neighbor’s field on foot from the road. “We" being Mama, Pa-with a saw slung over his shoulder, Grandma, My Uncle Ed-with a compass in hand, and myself - dressed up like Jo March out for an adventure. We wander along looking at the sights and also searching for the perfect tree. Grandma, Mama, and I weigh in on which trees are our favorites, and which trees have taken on a whimsical appearance with age. The swamp is old and filled with trees aged to whimsical perfection. Pa stops, with his saw still resting over his shoulder, to admire the tamarack trees several feet wide. Tamaracks that large typically aren’t something you see anywhere other than built into the rafters of a hundred year old barn. 

Sawing our tree

We wander amongst the tamaracks and cedars until we find the right one. When we find it, Pa sets to sawing. The teeth bite into the green wood and he works it back and forth. The sawdust falls in a rainbow of browns and soon Uncle Ed is holding the tree Pa just sawed off. I clap my hands excitedly. Pa hoists it onto his shoulder, mama carries the saw. Uncle Ed checks his compass and we head for the truck. 

Christmas greens

Once loaded up, we head our separate ways wishing one another a Happy Christmas until we see them again on Christmas Day. The truck doors close and Pa opens the tea thermos. We have a cup of tea on the way home to warm us up. 

Carrying out the tree
(Probably would have been easier with a horse)

At home, Pa trims the bottom of the tree just right and fits it to the tree stand. Mama sets the tea kettle on and makes dinner. I wait impatiently. No matter how old I get I still hate waiting to decorate the tree. Apparently trees need to warm up, or settle, or whatever. I hate the wait. But Mama insists we do.

Finally after supper, tea is drank and things are cleared. Mama gets down the boxes of decorations. Christmas music rolls from the stereo, at least until Pa trades in Christmas music for fiddle tunes. There was a time when I begged and begged for lights on the tree. Now have simple and crisp white lights. Mama always does the lights. And then the fun part begins! Generations of family and friends pop out of the box of fragile decorations. Almost every ornament we put on the tree has a story. Mama can tell you who made it, or who owned it before we did, and now I can too. The childhood neon paper bell with glitter covered macaroni makes its appearance year after year. The delicate glass swans from great-grandma, the glass ball hand-painted by a local Nun, and the little set of vintage balls Grandpa called the “rudolf” ornaments because they had red paint on the little indentation like an old fashioned light. Those were always my favorites.

The tree settling in for its afterlife
as a Christmas tree

Every year is a bit different. Some years Mama strings wooden beads that remind me of plump cranberries, other years it is ribbon. There are always little miniature Tibetan prayer flags too. Last but not least, our topper. Mama saved the wrapping off of a wedding gift. It is a white dove in a nest. Every year the little dove builds her nest at the top of our tree. She reminds of the season, peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night. 

Winter Solstice

The winter solstice is the longest night of the year. For us, and many others for hundreds of centuries, it is a celebration of light. Our tree is always strung with little, white lights that shine for this celebration of light. There has always been an abundance of lamps and candles in the home place, and all of these are set to blazing for the darkest night. We sit with our lights by the parlor stove with a bowl of popcorn, lightly drizzled with yummy butter - there is so much warmth and glowing light to send us over this hump. From here on out the days get longer, the nights shorter, and Pa reminds us that threshing time is indeed, just around the corner. 

The winter solstice is just what I remember all the winter nights to be. The solstice, blizzards, and winter nights in general bring a familiar rhythm. And when I go back to the farm it is just the same as always.  

Though I spent many nights like these throughout my youth doing my own thing, I don’t remember those as clearly. Mama always said the biggest thing that pushed families apart compared to years ago, was not the television like many thinks, but central heat. I can speak from experience that it was less than pleasant to spend time shut away in my room because it was 50 degrees up there. Any project I set myself to was tough to do in my bedroom because my hands were freezing!! Instead, we gather by the parlor stove fire after chores for our evening activities. It is always cozy, warm, and mesmerizing to watch the flames leap behind the glass in the stove door.

When my parents bought the farm there was no central heating. Just wood burners and an old oil burning heater in the kitchen. I spent my first handful or so years of life in a house almost entirely heated with wood. Mama put me to bed with heated bricks to warm me up. Then I woke up with frost on the ceiling. I love the page in Little Town on the Prairie where Laura and Mary had to wait for Pa to shovel the snow off their bed before they could get up. I felt like that sometimes, though it never actually snowed in my room there was often frost on the ceiling. Mama left the cupboard doors under the sinks open and ran small space heaters to keep the pipes from freezing. It is worth noting that indoor plumbing tucked away behind cupboard doors isn’t really commonplace in history until central heating was established. I remember getting to use a space heater when I was taking a bath. Getting out of the bathtub under any other circumstances still makes me wish I had that old heater.

All these cold winter nights began with Pa coming home from work and we’d pull our chairs to the table. Dinner was warm and delicious. There isn’t a whole lot that Mama makes that doesn’t taste delicious. Pa buttered his bread, filled up his plate and his tea cup. We’d all do the same. Sometimes there would be neighbors at the table and sometimes not. Either way, the conversation flowed about our days, our plans, and whatever else. The meal would be consumed, and tea cups refilled. 

Bundled in heavy duck cloth with thick quilted lining, we’d head out into the dark, snow-covered night for chores. Ice is busted from water tanks, hay divvied up into mangers. And the best part, letting the horses in. Pa would slide open the big door. “hello there - insert the silly unforgettable nickname here” Pa greeted each horse as they came in single file, and in almost always the same order. And they head to their stalls. The routine is methodical and comforting. Pa and I put halters on each horse, loving on them along the way. The best sound in the world is a barn full of horses munching on hay. When the barn light goes off, it seems to get louder, rhythmic, and meditative. I’d listen for a few minutes before heading inside. Warm light from the windows beckoned us in like a lighthouse on the coast. 

The tea kettle sings with Pa’s fiddle, and a fresh pot of tea was brewed. We settle in for the night by the fire. A frequent phrase I heard growing up was, "You don't have a TV?! How do you even live?" The answer to this is really simple. I do, and very fully at that. I don't waste very much time in front of a talking box that told me all about the world and what was popular and all that. I just went out and found out for myself. I explored it and where I couldn’t go, I read about it. And that is what my family is exceptional at - reading! We read to learn, we read for the pure enjoyment, and we read just because. 

Our winter evenings were spent around the parlor stove with its glass window in the door. There is always something mesmerizing about watching a fire burn. Mama's knitting needles clicking away (when she wasn’t reading herself and sometimes she does both at the same time! Wow!) while Pa and I usually absorbed ourselves with books. On special nights we had popcorn too. We munched and read, sometimes reading parts aloud that were funny or interesting. We love primary-source material. I think Pa has read the Case Steam Traction Engine Manual about 500 times. Mama is a fan of magazines from the turn of the century - twentieth century that is. My whole life, my family has enjoyed history.  Living history events, various interpretative events, old tools, machinery, methods, etc. We read to fuel that, and to advance our knowledge of things others have forgotten. We read to research, take apart, and put back together.

Several books our family finds common ground on is; the Little House Series, The Land Remembers, anything by Eric Slone, and so much more. These books are a carefully crafted blend of the enjoyable ease of a novel, yet still carry a tremendous amount of factual content. We read though them and comb through the details. Then we go out and dig deeper, reading on the things that intrigue us, what is fact, what is not. And we find more books.

By the time I started kindergarten, Mama had read me the Little House books five times. When I was little, I was Laura. Mama could rule serious disciplinary action by simply saying "Laura" in a certain tone of voice and I knew I had done wrong. In my old age, I know there are parts of Laura’s story that have been changed to sell books rather than retell her actual story. I comb the pages of the annotated version of Pioneer Girl, a book that is more footnotes than it is Laura’s original writing, and I love it. I hang on every word, infuriated by the need to change historical details to sell books. 

Still, I have always loved novels and adventures to far away places. I love to get lost in the fantasy of those places. Books that take the folk lore of a place and breathe life into it. The fair folk of the British isles are not just little fluttering, huggable fairies. They are not to be trifled with. The books set in a faraway land everyone rides horses into battle without reins! Others where sly girls outsmart villains. Oh the places you can go!

When it was time for bed, we would snuff the candles, stoke the fires, and climb the chilly stairs. We snuggled deep under our quilts with visions of sugar plums, ferocious fairy queens, steaming locomotives, and future gardens dancing in our heads.