Christmas Trees Revisited

December 25, 2013
Gift to Mom

Christmas Trees Revisited

I’m almost 49 years old. Without fail, I’ve had at least one Christmas tree every year of my life. I can safely estimate that I’ve had 50 different trees. I love a finished, decorated tree. Whether live or fake, skinny or fat, I’ve loved all of them once they were up and decorated. Turning on the lights each day brings instant non-caloric gratification.

I never, ever started scrapbooking because I’d spend WAYYYY too much money on supplies and then never make the books! And then I’d feel wasteful and guilty. Flipping through my virtual scrapbook, a casual observer would notice that most every tree looks alike. Trees had colored and white lights, tinsel icicles until I married. White lights only after marriage.

Martha Stewart wannabes, close your ears, please. I only really remember about 4 trees and it’s because they were IMPERFECT!

I posted this picture and this comment on FB last week

If you angle your head just right this 5000 pound tree is straight. (Shay Shay Ryder--I didn't need weight training today after all.)#impatientstubbornstrongerthanithought

I had this grand idea that my 12 year old and I would be able to straighten the tree without taking it out of the stand. Not possible.

Those with serious OCD issues will want to avoid my home this year. We’ve named this year:

2013, The Leaning Tree of Clarkville.

I laugh constantly when I see the star at the top at it’s 37 degree angle. (No, I didn’t actually get out a protractor.) Much more it reminded me of how very much I am like my mother. I love pretty trees. In the end, I’m just practical.

It was 1971 and flocked trees were all the rage. I have no idea how much they cost back then, I just know that if my Mom said, “I am NOT paying that much for a tree!”, we weren’t getting one on the lot. There was no googling how to flock your own Christmas tree—no way to watch someone else mess up on YouTube. Nope, Vae Hudgins had borrowed the Woodsen’s canister vacuum cleaner and bought a kit from either K & B’s or Schwegmanns. 

Conjuring up the memories, Mom and I decided that we did, indeed go one evening as family to choose the flocked tree. No purchase was made once the price was discovered. So on another day, she and I folded down all the back seats in the station wagon and went out buy our tree. She got the cheapest scotch pine tree we could find and headed home with it pushed into the back of our metallic beige Pontiac Catalina Safari.

I know now that all 5 foot 3 and half inches of her pulled that tree out of the car and managed to get that prickly tree upright on the back porch all while wearing her pantsuit with the brown and white polka dotted top. That week’s trip to the beauty shop included a fresh frosting on her hair. Unwilling to get additional flocking highlights, she wrapped a scarf around her head. We have an 8mm movie that illustrates my determined mother doing all the work, while her darling children laugh at her. If the projector still worked we could use the original screen purchased in the 60’s and see her. There she would be cat eye glasses dotted with homemade snow transforming the tree into something even better than what we’d seen at the lot.

 Many years passed and we’d moved to Kingwood, Texas. We had a cathedral ceiling in our den. I have no memory or details in the acquisition of the tree. I just know that trees were beginning to get more expensive and Mom, again, was simply not going to pay for a large tree. No memory of helping get it in the house or putting in the stand or making sure that it was straight. I simply saw that tree in the den and with no malice towards any of my Jewish friends then or now, I named it “The Hanukkah Bush”! Based on current experience with a pre-teen, I believe it’s fair to assume that I was relentless with my complaining and ridicule. (Sidebar….it’s never too late to say, I’m sorry. “Sorry, Mom.”)

Long memory intact, BOTH Mom and I were determined to get a tree worthy of our large room in 1981. Trees were even more expensive than in 1980. We had long since sold off the station wagons. Mom had a dark blue 1977 Delta 88.

Mom determined that if we went to an area of Houston with a lower income populace, then we might find a large, affordable tree. She picked me up from school and drove south on I59.

She was correct. We found a gorgeous fir tree at a fraction of what it would have cost in our area. Our joint memories still recall that it was over $100. The salesman was pleased. We were thrilled. I don’t recall how long it took to tie that tree onto the four door sedan. I remember vividly, however, that the tree extended from the hood ornament to the trailer hitch.

There was space for Mom to see---if she kept her head in the same position the whole ride home.

It was just prior to the peak of rush hour. Cars were moving. We traveled slower than the fastest moving car. We were about halfway home when without warning, one of the plastic ropes broke and our magnificent tree went flying off the back of the car.

I screamed and burst into wailing tears. I wasn’t at all concerned about having some sort of accident, I was concerned that OUR TREE WOULD BE RUINED!!

Mom, despite her histrionic teenager, pulled the car over to the side of the road. She opened the car door. Without MY permission and without warning, she waited for a clearing of cars and RAN towards the tree. With one swift and decisive move she pulled the tree off the interstate. I know this to be true because of the very large burn mark on the bottom side of the fir.

I did NOT see the entirety of her heroic rescue because I was HIDING on the floorboard of the passenger side of the Delta 88! I was crying and praying, “Dear God, DO NOT LET ANYONE I KNOW SEE MY MOTHER!”

My vivid recollections stop shortly after my pleas to God. Somehow my mother, tiny Vae, former Girl Scout leader used what rope she could salvage and got that tree back on the car and into the house. No cell phone. No roadside assistance. NO help once we were home. I, of course, had to recover from the trauma of the tree experience. I’m guessing Dad must have helped once home from work.

The road burn was carefully placed towards the back of the wall. Once in place, it was indeed a marvelous tree. Much more, it was the tree that will live on in our memories.

Mom, I thank you for suffering through my dramatic mood swings and my loud protests over insignificant details. But, thanks for always doing your best to make sure that holidays and birthdays--even dinner each night were enjoyable and beautiful.

Thanks for teaching me that saving money makes us better stewards of what we have. When we have more than we need we can share more easily and generously with others.

Thanks for teaching me to make the most out of everything. During lean years, I was grateful that I knew how to use coupons and shop specials. I was able to make gifts that were beautiful and appreciated from what little I could scrape together in cash and supplies.

Thanks for getting things finished. You cooked at least two full meals a day, which meant you shopped and planned those meals. You cleaned the house and sewed most all of our clothes. All the while you had what amounted to a full time volunteer ministry through Bible Study Fellowship. Even after the tree event, I’d guess that you had dinner ready by the time Dad got home from work.

Most of all, thanks for teaching me that sometimes you just have to pull yourself together and do what’s necessary—whether it’s teaching yourself to flock a tree, or pulling a gigantic tree off the freeway. I’m grateful that I inherited your resolve and your strength. I never imagined my life would turn out this way. How grateful I am your daughter.

More, I’ve been on the receiving end of your faith and your prayers. I know that you’ve always believed in me. You’ve always loved me and shown me the love that Christ offers is the best gift we can receive.

The Leaning Tree of Clarkville was knocked over by Catniss a couple of weeks ago. Most of the ornaments were broken. I cried over only two of them. One I made during cash starved years. The other was a nativity ceramic ornament you gave us the year Richard and I got engaged. It had always been a reminder each year of the two things I value most: Emmanuel and family. The ornament was beyond repair. But those relationships symbolized in white ceramic are forged stronger because of suffering, joy, and years of work. How grateful I am for growth and redemption.

Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you more in this year of 2013 than I’ve ever loved you. I look forward to the next time when I can confidently say that I love you more than at this given moment.

Word Gifts

Today is my mother’s 76^th birthday. Gift shopping for Mom is always easy and fun. It’s easy because Mom is never one to buy things for herself. Born during the depression and raised in drought prone west Texas, she was taught to use what you have and never waste anything—especially water. A couple of Thanksgivings ago, I was basting the turkey and noticed the baster was melted on one side of the plastic tube just below the harvest gold bulb.

Lori- “Mom, why in the world don’t you buy another baster?”

Mom- slightly irritated “Well. It STILL works!”

She got a turkey baster that year for a bonus birthday gift. I now realize it would have been the perfect package topper adorned with a tulle bow—my signature. I’ll do that in 20 years when she’s ready for another one.

It’s really fun to shop for Mom because she loves and appreciates any gift she receives. She’s full tilt enthusiastic about whatever is in the recycled box or bag placed before her. She’s particularly pleased when the gift was a bargain.

Mom- While opening package—“Oh, this is a NEW Talbot’s box!” Smiling, she carefully lifts the box top. (I gave up taping the sides of the box years ago! Too risky with the new generation of box-ruiners) She carefully unfolds the tissue paper. Pausing to snatch a bit of air she’ll exclaim , “Lori! I LOVE THIS SWEATER! It’s my color!!”

Lori- “And I only paid THREE DOLLARS for it!!!”

Mom- with even MORE enthusiasm, “REALLY?? I LOVE IT MORE NOW!!”

Volume is one of Mom’s natural, inherited strengths of which I am heir.

I often buy things in advance for Mom because I’ll see something particularly great that I know she’ll love. In addition, she, without guile will mention things she’d “love to have”. I’ve learned to listen carefully. I, with an uncooperative mind, keep lists now. This year, I didn’t have anything specific in the Mom folder in my Awesome Notes app. And Talbots, curses upon them, closed their Lewisville outlet store.  Clothing wasn’t on the list.

Mom has also learned that it’s not only ok, but appropriate to ask for what she wants. She announced during Thanksgiving that from now on she doesn’t want purchased presents for her birthday or Christmas. “I have EVERYTHING I could ever need. I want letters from each of you! I want to hear your favorite memories of our family and things you’ve loved about being out here at the ranch---anything you love and remember!!”

This request was prompted in great part out of her mother’s death this past year. Her mother’s daughter, Mom cherishes family. Shortly after Mom and Dad married, two west Texas kids with a baby on the way and just enough money to pay bills moved to Pennsylvania. It might as well have been The North Pole as far as distance was concerned. Phones were for emergencies and brief holiday greetings where each person stood sentinel for their chance to say, “Merry Christmas” as quickly as possible.  Mom wrote weekly letters to her parents and to her in-laws. She continued that habit even when long distance calls were not a financial concern.

Memo saved every single one of those letters.

She saved cards and letters from all her 5 of her children and all 13 of her grandchildren. This past Spring all of these were divided and given back to the sender.

When long distance became a free perk of owning a cell phone and a way to keep landline companies relevant, Mom started calling her mother everyday around 3 in the afternoon. In the last years, macular degeneration had robbed Memo the joy of easily reading cards and letters. Stories were relayed primarily by phone.

My mind and heart can see Mom sitting on her side of the forest green leather sectional, her legs elevated on the footrest—a necessary habit after a fall and a total reconstruction of her ankle in 2008. Mom, waking from her power nap, sees the clock and thinks, “Oh! It’s 3. I better call Mother.” Fully aware of the reality, tears for the ready, she reaches instead for the letters. Although I haven’t seen the stack of letters, my best guess is that they are in reverse order of postmarked dates. They are in a shoe box from the 70’s with a recycled rubber band from Memo’s junk drawer. Only God knows how old the rubber band is! I see Mom choose the last letter while carefully reading the date stamped by some faithful postal worker. It’s June of 1960. Mom carefully unfolds, in thirds, thin pretty paper with her writing on both sides. It’s properly dated in the upper left hand corner. In lovely, practiced cursive the first line reads:

Dear Mother and Daddy,

And the stories begin—blue ink, each page carefully notated with a number in the right hand corner. Each ending with:

Love,

Vae

Mom is a story teller. Her mother and father were both story tellers. I love reading letters from Mom because I hear her voice—that West Texas drawl, dramatic pauses, her inevitable laughter as she writes. I love the punctuated, “Ha!” which gives her readers permission to laugh along with her.

Yearning to share her joy, she picks up the phone to call me.

M-“You busy? I’ve just GOT to read you this part of a letter!”

The stories, many long forgotten events come alive once again as I hear my Mom reading her words back to me on the phone. 

M-"I can remember that EXACT day and what I was wearing!"

I learn the details of places I never visited, the phrases used by toddlers Scott and Carol that I can never hear except in my soul.  Stories told by my mother to her mother about my daughter.

Technology, if I may say so quite redundantly, has changed the landscape of communication forever. My phone can do what required at least 10 pieces of enormous equipment to complete even a decade ago. I love that I can communicate instantly with no effort to my bi-coastal nephew and nieces. Facebook keeps me connected with people I’d lost years ago. ( I’m still not quite sure that I want to know that they were at Target at 10:48 am on Tuesday. But I do.) I know that Hayley, in North Carolina loves me because she uses five colors of hearts and an emoji blowing me a kiss as her salutation. I know it’s ok to laugh AT her because she typed LOL while instant messaging. I can pick up the phone as soon as I gain enough composure to stop howling with laughter to tell Carol about Annie Beth’s latest escapade. Yet, with no record, I'm dependent on my memory to remind me of such moments. 

My mother’s gift request is both a gift to her and a gift to me.

To Carol.

To Hayley.

To possibilities of future Annie Beths and Spencers.

Words reminds us of who we are. Who we were. How we’ve changed. How we have NOT changed. Stories weave us together and help define family. I am delighted with the wisdom and courage of Mom’s gift request.

My handwriting is wretched. Seriously wretched. I will occasionally write one or two things for Mom, so that future generations will know that I did know how to use a ballpoint pen. They will then fully appreciate my choice to type and hit print….or save—particularly when cheaters aren’t always within grasp. (That’s just stupid. Even reading glasses don’t help with deciphering hieroglyphics.) I’ll mostly use this blog format.

I’m quite sure that’s why I started this blog to begin with--for me and for my family. I never intended other eyes to see this. But in the story telling, some of us have been connected to the power of what happens when we live out of honest, verbal places.

So much technology.

So little real connection.

I happen to believe that connection matters.

I am honored to be the daughter of Vae Rena Smith Hudgins, story teller extraordinaire, keeper of memory--cherished glimpses of life. She’s always championed me and encouraged me to keep writing. This next year, I’ll be dedicating so many of my blogs to you, Mom. I’ll tell the stories that have long been told, morphed as they are over time depending on the storyteller. I will tell ones from my own particular corner of living in the world as your daughter, as Memo’s granddaughter, as Annie Beth’s mother. The goal is not to win accolades from strangers or Facebook friends, it’s to honor you both now and in the future when I only have words to remember some interaction we had in the past. We aren’t born with instructions or money back guarantees. We do, though, have words. Words form stories which are the foundation of relationships. Words give direction, comfort, peace.  And Mom, we have The Word—Hope everlasting.

Happy Birthday Mom! I love you more with each passing year.

(Next blog---Christmas Trees Revisited)