Dad’s Horrid Christmas Tree

Christmas memories are some of the fondest of a lifetime full of memories. When I published a Sunday School Newsletter in Texas in the nineties, I asked the class to send me stories of their fondest Christmas memories.  Here are some that I wrote for that newsletter.

DFH Volume 1 Issue 25

By Jim Dayton

When it came to harvesting a Christmas tree, my dad, Paul Dayton, could hold his own with Charlie Brown.  If they ever held a contest for worst looking tree, my dad would retire the trophy.  He sometimes cut one from the woods behind his sawmill.  He delighted in his manly duty of choosing and felling “just the right one” for our small home.  He preferred spruce or balsam over pine, even though pine was the wood of choice for his livelihood.  Pine was too messy.  His pride and joy was usually about 6 feet tall, and it sprouted about one or two branches per foot.   It was pathetic.  My mom never complained, but she must have been disappointed year after year.  She did the best she could to cover its nakedness, but it was hopeless.  Starting when we were old enough to discern its shame, my brothers and sisters and I would always joke about how bad it was.  Now we have come to enjoy memories of our dad’s trees because of their, and his, unique character.  [Footnote: Some years he purchased one, so this story is a little exaggerated.  However it makes a valid point.]


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