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This column is dedicated to acknowledging examples of positives that express the community spirit of Columbus — our town.
If you’ve ever been in the red hills of Taylor County, Texas, you know the majority of the trees are mesquite and cedar. Cedars are usually the only kind considered when cutting your own Christmas tree. This year my family tree is once again a cedar. Every night when I walk into the room where it stands, and catch that first whiff, happy pictures flood my mind. Those pictures are of my years growing up on a ranch between Buffalo Gap and Tuscola 120 miles west of Ft Worth (where the West begins) and of the Christmas trees I loved so much.
Back on the ranch, the Christmas tree search was always conducted on horseback. Daddy rode Silver. I rode Cricket. We would ride and then survey, consult, measure, walk around, and most of all, enjoy visualizing which tree would be best for us that year. We never chose just one. Two trees — no more — were always chopped. I had the privilege of choosing. Daddy learned early on that, even though it was double the trouble, choice in a cedar Christmas tree is imperative. He’d chop two trees, attach his lariat, and pull both behind Silver back to the ranch house. Just so there were no slip-ups, he would mount each of the trees on a stand made of crossed boards. Then Mother would join us in the final decision. It’s funny how those cedars always had a “hole.” It wasn’t too difficult to ascertain which side had the hole, and we knew how to handle the problem. That same hole exists today even if you purchase a fancy (and expensive) live tree from a nursery. There’s still a hole to hide against the wall.
Then decorating began. Shoe boxes of old ornaments were brought out from their resting place. These ranch trees never had the latest fad theme such as Southwestern or Victorian. Our ornaments were a collection used year after year. Many were tarnished; all were recognizable and represented a heritage from Christmases past. The only new additions each year were tinsel or icicles. There might be some new hooks for the balls and, likely, there were fresh candy canes. Until it was determined the lights were working, we held our breath. No one dreamed of driving 15 miles to town for replacements. The decorated tree was always beautiful because it shimmered with tinsel which cured all blemishes. Each year’s tree seemed more loved than the last.
What a tradition! Daddy always led me to believe I’d chosen just the right tree. He never rushed me. He never complained about how long we rode before the two trees were chopped. From my earliest experience, he listened to my rationale about the choice of trees. As in many circumstances he and I shared, he gave me responsibility. It was evident he knew just how to help a child gain confidence. He gave his child the opportunity to make decisions and to live with those choices. Daddy never worried we’d have an ugly tree. He never burdened me with lengthy or tedious guidelines for the selection process.
His guideline was “Let children have a chance to be responsible for some decisions.” Relax. Go with the child’s choice. Children learn best by cutting their own tree and helping select which position best hides the hole. Daddy understood there are no perfect trees — or perfect children.
