First Books - Gateway To the World

Across the Fence #584

One thing I vividly remember about grade school was ordering paperback books. Several times each year, our teacher would receive a catalog of available books from TAB, the Teen Age Book Club. We would eagerly look through the listing of available books to see if there was something we wanted to order. Each book would have a picture of the cover, a short description of the book, the price, and an order number.

I would look through the list and get to order a couple books each time. I loved the books about animals and adventure stories. I still have many of those books today. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away or give them away when we moved. So I packed them up and carted them with us.

There was Red Fox by Charles Roberts, The Red Pony by John Steinbeck, Old Yeller by Fred Gipson, Midnight–The Story of a Wild Horse, and Ghost Town Adventure, both by Rutherford Montgomery, The Mudhen, and The Mudhen and the Walrus, both by Merritt Parmelee Allen, Big Red, Outlaw Red, and Irish Red, all by Jim Kjelgaard, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, Jim Davis–Smuggler’s Captive by John Masefield, Down the Big River– Two Boys Battle the Ohio Cave Gang by Stephen Meader, Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, Swiss Family Robinson by Johann Wyss, Anne Frank–The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank, and The Mystery of the Spanish Cave by Geoffrey Housebolt.

There were many more, but that’s a sampling of the books I read during my grade school days. At that time, in the 1950’s, a paperback book cost twenty-five or thirty-five cents. That was probably a lot of money to be spending on books by the parents of most of us at Smith, a one-room country school.

It was always exciting when the package arrived containing the books. There was something magical about receiving a book that was your very own to keep. The covers always had wonderful illustrations and we could hardly wait to start reading the selections we received. I should mention that the available books for reading in a rural school library were very limited. Our library consisted of one small bookcase at the back of the room. I don’t remember very many books in it. 

After school, when I could sit down at home with my new books, I would lose myself in the story I was reading. I sailed down the Big River in search of pirates, or followed the adventures of the dog, Big Red. I had tears in my eyes when Old Yeller and The Red Pony died. I was there when Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher had their adventures together, and I sailed on the raft, down the Mississippi River, with Huck Finn and Jim. I lived the life of the Red Fox and was there in the den with the Gray Wolf. It gave me an appreciation for wild animals.

Books could take me places I had never been, and participate in adventures I would never otherwise have. I could go to all those places and experience all those things without ever leaving my room. Those books expanded my horizons and sparked my imagination. They let me explore fantasy worlds and real worlds. What wonderful things they were to me. I think those books from the Teen Age Book Club started me on the path to enjoying reading, and also writing.  

They led to my first writing attempts. One of the stories I wrote was a pirate adventure. I don’t remember much about the story now, but I doubt if my great, literary gem would have rivaled Treasure Island. I wish I had a copy of that story now. Another writing attempt was a series of stories called, “The Adventures of Rocky Rooster,” illustrated of course. How many adventures could a rooster have anyway? 

When we cleaned out the old farmhouse after my parents died, I was hoping to come across those old stories. We didn’t find any trace of them. I suspect they were thrown in the trash and destroyed years ago. Such literary treasures, up in smoke! I jest of course, but I would love to be able to read today what I wrote so many years ago. 

Another of my literary gems was an illustrated story about a country mouse titled, “Under The Country Oak Tree.”  I still have that one. It’s a real Shakespearean tragedy. The poor mouse dies in the end. I thought I had accidentally thrown it out when we were getting rid of “stuff” before we moved. I was glad when I came across it last weekend, as we moved the last of our stuff to Westby. Now the problem is, which box did I throw it in? At least I know where those old books are. They’re all in a special box. 

  

The books we ordered from that book club, while I was in grade school, were very important to a young farm boy and they still are. Perhaps that’s why I saved them all these years. I wonder if other rural students still have some of their TAB books? To most people they’re just old, cheap paperbacks, but to me those books opened up a whole new world. They were worth every penny back in the 50’s, and they’re real treasures today.

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Surrounded by Ancestral History

Across the Fence#583


It was late in the day as I gazed out the window of our house, still under construction, and looked at the cold winter landscape surrounding me. The abundance of December snow and freezing temperatures had added winter problems to our house-building adventure. A temporary heater and fans were keeping the house warm enough for drywall to be applied. I needed to check the house a couple times during the evening to make sure the heater was still functioning properly. The furnace couldn’t be hooked up until the drywall job was completed, or the warrantee would be null and void if it sucked all the drywall dust into the furnace and damaged it. This house building was a real learning experience for me.

I half-jokingly told an old army buddy; I think I had less stress when we were in Vietnam together and getting shot at. I suspect anyone who has gone through the adventure of building a house, and trying to sell one at the same time, knows what I’m talking about.

As I stood alone, looking out the window, in the darkened house that day, I was questioning my sanity. We could have bought a house in town and avoided all the extra expenses and building problems. After all, houses on the market were plentiful and their prices kept dropping as fast as President Bushs’ approval ratings. The sub-zero temperature, and the biting wind forming drifts in the snow around the house, added to the weight that was pushing my spirits down.

I was checking a west window for condensation, when I saw the lights of the Erlandson farm to the northwest. It had a warm, inviting glow with the snow-covered ground surrounding it, and the last brilliant pink of the fading sun peeking through cold-looking clouds in the distance. It was like viewing a gorgeous winter landscape painted by a master artist. My spirits began to lift. Views like that are priceless and one of the many reasons I wanted to live in the country again.

The Sherpe farm as it looked when I was growing up.

That’s when it suddenly dawned on me that I was surrounded by ancestral history. My great, great grandparents, Lars and Bertha Tomtengen, homesteaded the farm I was looking at, when they came to this country from Norway in 1850. My great grandmother, Lisa, who married Hans Hanson Sherpe, was raised there. That ancestral farm now bordered us, just across the road, to the north.

I looked out another window to the southwest. There were the lights of the farm where Syvert Sherpe once lived. He was a brother of my great grandfather. He also married one of the Tomtengen girls. That farm borders us to the west, just across the fence. 

Out the southern windows I could see lights in the house where my grandparents, Oscar and Julia Hanson had lived. They were my mother’s parents.  Just beyond their farm, I saw the farm where an aunt and uncle had lived, Maynard and Jeannette Hanson, and my cousins, Cynthia and Brian.

Across the highway from their farm, I could see the lights of the farm where I was born and lived for the first nine years of my life. I still refer to it as the Hauge farm. 

Just across the road from my grandparents I could see the dark silhouettes of the trees that surrounded Smith School, where I went for eight years. The building was recently moved.

Straight to the south of us I could see Birch Hill on the Thompson farm, where we spent many wonderful days exploring the woods and rocks and playing with neighbor kids.

I went to the front of the house and looked out the north windows. Just over the hill in the distance I could see the treetops of the farm where another uncle and aunt had lived, LaMont and Hazel Hanson, and my cousins, Lyle and Wayne.

To the northeast, about a mile-and-a-half away, I could see the farm where my great grandparents, Hans and Lisa Sherpe lived. Hans bought that farm in the 1860s after coming to America from Norway. My grandfather, Andrew Sherpe was born and died there. My father lived there when he married my mother. It’s right across the road from the Old Towne Motel, where I lived for six months while our house was being built.

Looking out the east window, I could see lights at the Richard and Sharon Gilbeck farm, just across Highway 14. My grandparents, Andrew and Inga Sherpe once owned that farm until they lost it during the Depression. Grandpa Andrew built the barn that’s still standing. My father and his sister, Juna, lived there when they were young.

Halfway between that farm and our house I see the lights of the farm where I grew up, along with my brothers and sister. My younger brother, Arden, and his wife Jan, and their girls, Katelyn and Kassie, live there now. That farm borders us on the east.

Yes, I’m surrounded by ancestral history. It hadn’t dawned on me until I was checking the windows that cold, blustery evening. I’ve always had a deep interest in family history and genealogy. I may be the new kid on the block, but I have very deep roots here. I think it’s only appropriate that I began the New Year in an old setting, surrounded by history, and the ghosts of my ancestors. It felt good. It felt like home.

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Long Live Local Journalism

Across the Fence #582

Before Door County author and journalist Norbert Blei died in 2013, he did a story on the importance of including local columns/writers in the local papers.

Times are changing as we all know. The day of locally-owned businesses, whether banks, grocery stores, hardware stores, clothing stores, or newspapers, is fading into the sunset. They’re being replaced by larger and larger conglomerates, that buy up and force out small, locally-owned businesses. It’s a fact of life. Stop for a moment and think of businesses in your community that have been lost because of this. 

The newspaper business has also changed. Most local papers were owned and published by a person or family that lived in the community. Today, very few weeklies are locally-owned. They’ve been bought out and are under the management of larger corporations that own and publish many newspapers.

Some of the larger papers have fallen on hard times. But I’m happy to report that local, weekly newspapers are alive and well, and are holding their own. 

Some have even increased their circulation base. I think this reflects the importance of the hometown newspaper. They’re the only paper that gives full coverage of the events and stories that are important to you. They cover local activities and photos accompany the in-depth stories. 

Many of those stories are clipped and What if your local high school’s sports team was in an important game and the only mention in the paper was the final score in the box scores listing? There were no details and no photos showing the action.

What if you held a big community event and the only mention in the paper was one, small paragraph of coverage? No photos of local people or activities accompanied the short paragraph.

 I recently came across some stories that my mother had clipped and saved from my 4-H days. It was great to see those photos that included friends, and to read the stories. I was glad our local Westby Times had covered those events from my younger years.

Having been in the advertising, marketing, and journalism business most of my working life, I have an understanding of the problems newspapers are facing today. We’re told that people have a much shorter attention span than they used to have. They want their information now, fast, and short. Think of a television newscast where each story receives a brief mention. There’s very little in-depth reporting. We’ve become conditioned to accepting short, sound bites.

But lets return to your local newspaper, the one you’re reading this column in. Chances are, you take your time and read many of the stories in their entirety, not just the intro paragraph. Why? Because this is your community. This is your paper. These stories are about your friends and neighbors. These are your people. The photos are of people you know. Even family members can be found on these pages. These are stories and subjects that mean something personal to you. This is where you check for upcoming events in your community, where you find an ad for a local pancake supper put on by a community organization or church; maybe even a lutefisk dinner is advertised; a benefit event for a local person may be listed; specials at local businesses, along with want ads and garage sales can be found, and the list goes on and on.

The local newspaper is very important to the community. It’s your voice. It’s your link to what’s happening in the community. I was witness to the importance of the local paper one day when I was traveling through Boscobel. I decided to stop at the Boscobel Dial office and say hello to Editor David Krier and the staff. The paper had just been delivered from the printer and was available for sale. There was a steady stream of people coming and going to get their paper hot off the press. Don’t tell me that a local paper isn’t important to a community.

Norbert Blei, a writer who lived in Door County, Wisconsin, was a champion of local papers and local journalism. He said that a community needs a newspaper that provides full news coverage, interesting features, concerned columnists, good writing, good stories, and an editor/publisher who knows the place, the people, the problems, and how to put it all down in words (and good photography). He said the past is the future when it comes to local journalism–which corporate owners of newspapers often fail to grasp. To maintain a viable, interesting, local paper, we need all those things, instead of shrinking the pages, the staff, the news, and starving the readership, by focusing solely on “bottom line” instead of the written line. Columnists need to be compensated for their stories. They can’t be expected to provide weekly stories for free. Unfortunately, many newspapers expect to run columns for nothing or they’re not interested. That’s like a slap in the face. They’re telling you your writing isn’t worth anything. Many people tell me my column is the first thing they read or one of the main reasons they subscribe. That should be worth something. Norbert Blei loved my column, which meant a lot to me because he didn’t give praise lightly.

We need to support our local paper with our subscriptions and advertising so they can survive. If a community loses its newspaper, it loses its identity and voice. No community should let that happen. Once its gone, it won’t be coming back. 

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Snow Globes

Across the Fence # 581


It had been an unseasonably warm December in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. It looked like the kingdom was in for a brown Christmas and New Year’s. Most of the children were worried that Santa wouldn’t be able to deliver their presents without any snow. Many children had asked for skis and sleds and there wouldn’t be any use for them without snow. 

That Christmas Eve there was still no sign of snow. Everyone was getting very worried. The sky was as clear as glass and not a snowflake to be seen. There was a lot of tension and negative energy in the air. All the children in the kingdom were staring at the sky for any sign of a snowflake. Christmas was almost here and unless it began to snow soon it was going to be a Christmas without any presents.

The only kids who didn’t care if it didn’t snow were with the Sherpe brothers. They had asked Santa for BB guns. They wouldn’t need snow to play with their Christmas presents. They didn’t believe that Santa brought their presents. They were sure that their parents bought them and hid them some place in the house until Christmas, when they brought them out on Christmas Eve and put them under the tree. They decided to start hunting through the house and see if they could find a couple of packages that looked like guns. They looked everywhere but they found nothing. They were beginning to wonder if maybe there was a Santa Claus and he still had their presents in his sleigh at the North Pole.

On Christmas morning they found skis and sleds under their tree instead of guns. Santa knows best what a person should have at Christmas. He knew it was going to snow and that they would want to ski and slide down the hills on their sleds with the other children. 

Suddenly there was a huge disturbance in the air, the earth began shaking, and snow began to fall, lightly at first, and then it became heavier and heavier. Soon there was a complete whiteout in the air as snowflakes filled the sky. Children of the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty looked out their windows at the wonderful sight of snow swirling through the air. They were filled with joy as they watched snowflakes settle gently to the ground and accumulate. They realized Santa would be able to use his sleigh to deliver presents after all. The negative atmosphere that had filled the air earlier had been replaced by positive energy. Suddenly, the darkness in the sky was lit by a bright light that appeared, and the image of a sleigh pulled by reindeer could be seen. It was Santa. He was going to make it. Now that there was snow, Santa would be able to deliver presents to all the good little girls and boys. The children would be able to use their new skis and sleds in the morning.

That evening the snow continued to fall gently to the ground and the air took on the appearance of glass again. Children of the kingdom who were looking out their windows at the falling snow, realized they could see images in the glass-like sky. There were happy, smiling faces looking at them through the glass sky. The children realized they were living inside a snow globe and were looking out at the world beyond the globe, instead of into the globe. Someone on the outside had finally picked it up and shaken it, causing the snow to arrive, making it possible for Santa to use his sleigh and reindeer to deliver their presents. What had been an unhappy, snowless Christmas was turning into a beautiful, wonderful, white Christmas for those who lived in the snow globe and for those who had made it all possible when they had picked it up and shaken it, releasing the magic within the globe. It was a beautiful sight as the snow gently swirled through the air and fell to the ground.

Never pass up the opportunity to witness the magic of a snow globe. Next time you look at one and shake it, think of someone living inside that snow globe and looking back at you. Maybe we all live in a giant snow globe too, and someone just needs to shake up our world to make it come alive. 

                                                             

                                                               

I hope you had a wonderful Christmas and New Year’s with all the magic of the season, and that it was also filled with snow globes. 

*

Could You Live A 19th Century Style Life?

Across thee Fence #580


After my story about sitting in the Hauge Church on that quiet hilltop and reflecting on all the changes that have taken place in life since that time, My friend, Bob, who lives in Door County, brought up a great point to me in an e-mail. He said, “Life isn’t any less complicated and challenging today.” Bob and I have talked about this in the past. If the grid goes down, how will people cope?

How many people could go back to living in the 19th century? Would you know how to build a shelter and provide your own food? Have you ever butchered a pig or killed a chicken and prepared it for eating. What if you couldn't get to the supermarket to buy your food? What percent of the population today would be able to do those things? How many people still know how to can and preserve food? In the winter our cellar was filled with food in jars that lined the shelves. How many people know how to make lard to use in cooking? Has anyone made their own soap lately? How many people could use an old wood-burning stove to cook if the electricity was out? First you’d have to find an old stove and get it set up. There‘s a real art to knowing how to cook on a wood-stove. You needed to know where to place things for best results. 

Wood burning cook stove in the SummerKitchen.

How many people could function in the dark? Most people don’t even have a flashlight handy if the lights go out. We don’t have lanterns or candles handy to provide light if the power goes down. Without electricity our water won’t run and our garage door openers won’t open or shut, except by hand. 

I'm old enough to still remember my mother and grandmother using that old wood-fired stove and cooking on it. I can still see it and smell the aroma’s wafting from the things that were cooking on it.

The cooking stove had a heavy firebox on the left side where the wood went. On the right side was a reservoir that held water to be heated up. Above the firebox were usually six round openings of various sizes, covered with lids. This was where you placed your pots and pans that held your cooking materials. There was a large island in the center of the stove that was used for baking. Above this area were two warming ovens where food was placed to keep it warm. As I thought of the old wood-burning stove that was the central part of our kitchen, I realized how much my mother knew about making it work to perfection. I can see her making lefse on the top of that old stove and loaves of bread in the large oven. I remember the wonderful aroma of fresh, homemade bread that rose from the stove when Ma would open that large front door. 

It was also used to warm us on cold days. We’d open the door and heat would radiate out from the stove and help warm up the kitchen. When we came in from outside and were frozen, it was wonderful to sit in front of that open door, and put your feet up on the door. I can still feel the tingling in my feet as they thawed out. That wood-burning stove provided a lot of the heat for the kitchen area. It was also lots of work keeping the fires going. It took a lot of wood to keep the fire at the right temperature and knowing the right size of wood to use. Cutting wood took a lot of time in those days. You needed a large supply to get you through the winter. The left side of the stove over the firebox was the hottest and the area near the reservoir was used for warming. 

Wood was an important part of winter survival. That’s another thing that people don't need to worry about today. 

Washing clothes and taking a bath were also part of life that has greatly changed since those days. We didn’t have plumbing in the house until I was a sophomore in high school. We still had a two-holer outhouse. That was a real adventure on cold winter days. Taking a bath was an adventure. We used a tub that we filled with water and then added hot water from the reservoir on the stove. Saturday night was bath night. We four kids took turns. The tub was placed near the front of the stove so we had some heat during our bath. There wasn’t a lot of privacy. 

Washing clothes is another area that has changed in many ways. How many people would want to go back to using a wringer washing machine?

When I think back, it really wasn’t that many years ago that this is the way we lived. How many of you who lived through that time would want to go back to those old methods instead of the modern way we live today? It may have been easier in some ways, but it was certainly a lot harder in most ways. My friend, Bob, had a good point. We live in a crazy, fast-paced, high-tech world, but the world we grew up in was not easy either. 

If the electric grid went down, the Amish would still be able to survive, while most of us wouldn’t have a clue where to begin.

The things I’ve mentioned in this story just scratch the surface of the many things you’d need to know to survive.

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The Singing Branch

Across the Fence #579w (Christmas Extra from the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty)

One day many moons ago, a young Chippewa warrior named Wa Hoohega, got lost in the woods of Wolf Valley and couldn’t find his way out before nightfall. As the sun sank behind the wooded hills and the woods became dark, the Great Spirit hung the moon and stars in the sky to provide a light for those animals who needed to travel in the dark.

The young man, not wanting to become even more lost in the dark, sat down among the trees and wrapped himself in his blanket to ward off the chill of the evening and await the morning light when he could find his way out of the woods and back to his home. 

That evening, as he lay on the forest floor, he heard a sound he had never heard before. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. For several hours he listened to what sounded like the wind blowing across the branches of the trees and making wonderful music. He thought he would never get to sleep, but as he listened to the peaceful music, sleep finally overcame him and he drifted off to the dream world. In his dreams, Wakunka, the woodpecker, came flying through the trees and landed on his shoulder. “Follow me in the morning and I will show you where the beautiful music is coming from,” Wakunka whispered in his ear. The woodpecker then flew away and disappeared into the dark shadows of the evening.

In the morning as Wa Hoohega awoke, the sun was shining brightly just above the crest of the eastern hills. The young man heard a tapping sound in a tree near him and there sat Wakunka, the woodpecker, drilling a hole in the branch of a tree. He remembered his dream and stood up. As he did so, Wakunka flew off into the woods. Wa Hoohega followed the flitting woodpecker deep into the woods where they finally came to a Cedar swamp. There drilled in the branch of a tree were a series of holes that gave a whistling sound as the wind passed through them. It made such beautiful music that Wa Hoohega knew he must have that branch to take back to his village. However, the branch was out of his reach and there was no way to climb up the trunk to break it off.

Just then there was a crackling of leaves and sticks as Bjørnka, the bear, came through the brush and stood next to the tree. “I know your problem,” he said, “but I can help you.  I will climb up the tree and break off the branch so that you may take it back to your village. I only ask that you remember me each time you make music on the stick, for only with my assistance will you be able to make the stick come alive with beautiful music.” With that, the bear climbed high into the tree, broke the branch free and it fell to the ground at Wa Hoohega’s feet.

Native American flute created and carved by Bob McCurdy of Door County.

He picked up the branch and told Wakunka, “I will take this home, for you can make another.”  Without another word he left and climbed to the top of a high hill where he sat down on Sunshine Prairie to make the stick come alive with the beautiful music he had heard during the evening. He blew and blew but nothing he did would produce any sounds from the stick. Frustrated, he finally asked the Great Spirit for help. The Great Spirit heard his cries for help and sent Wakunka and Bjørnka to help him. Wakunka flew down from a tree and Bjørnka came lumbering up the hill.  When they came to where Wa Hoohega sat, Wakunka said, “You were very selfish in taking the only branch that sang and not leaving another to replace it. Not only that, but you left without so much as a thank you and you didn’t remember the assistance that Bjørnka gave you either, as you tried to make the branch come alive with sound.”

With the woodpecker’s words Wa Hoohega realized the error of his selfish ways and asked them to forgive him and show him how to make the beautiful music he had heard the night before. Seeing that the young man was truly sorry for his actions they agreed to help him.

Wakunka, the woodpecker, turned into a man and Bjørnka, the bear, became very small and climbed atop the branch now lying at the young man’s feet. Wakunka then picked up the branch and it turned into a finely crafted flute. “Watch me and I will show you how to make this flute come alive.” 

He moved Bjørnka away from a hole in the flute where he had been sitting and placed the flute to his lips. As he blew into it, the wonderful sounds Wa Hoohega had heard in the evening now filled the air once again. And so with Bjørnka sitting atop the flute, Wakunka taught the young man how to make the music. When the lesson was finished he also taught him how to make a flute. Bjørnka tore off another branch and Wakunka drilled the holes with his beak. Then with their assistance, Wa Hoohega made his own flute to take back to his village, and left the original flute in the woods so there would always be music for people to hear as the wind whistled through the branches of the trees.

This time he thanked his new friends for their help before leaving to return to his village. He practiced making music on the flute as he made his way home. That afternoon as he entered the village playing beautiful music on his flute, all the people came running to see what was making the wonderful sounds they heard.

Kiana, a beautiful young woman and daughter of the village chief, who was very shy and seldom talked to the young men of the village, listened to him play the lovely melodies on the flute. The young men of the village had tried for years to gain her attention but none had succeeded. Now as Kiana listened to the music, she was drawn to Wa Hoohega. Her brain told her, “Go slow, go slow.” But her heart was touched by the music and she found herself walking toward Wa Hoohega as if transported on a cloud of air.  Her brain again told her, “Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut.” But again her heart won out and spoke for her. She said, “Send your father to my father, and offer a gift, no matter how small, whatever you can afford, for I wish to be your wife.”

Wa Hoohega, who had always loved Kiana, quickly left to tell his father that he had found his bride. His family, who was quite poor, had little to give that would be fitting for a chief’s daughter. They finally decided to offer the flute Wa Hoohega had made, to Kiana’s father in hopes it would be worthy of her.  The gift was accepted and a short time later, the wedding took place. After the ceremony, all the people of the village celebrated and danced far into the night to the beautiful music of the new flute. From deep in the forest they could also hear the same sounds dancing among the branches in the wind. As Wa Hoohega and his new bride sat together enjoying the music, a woodpecker flew overhead and dipped it’s wings as if in greeting. Wa Hoohega smiled and waved as the woodpecker circled over them before flying back toward the forest. 

  

It wasn’t long before all the young men in the village were making flutes, and with Wa Hoohega as their teacher, they soon were able to talk to the woman of their choice, through the magic music of the flute.  For where there is music, the notes will always reach the hearts of those who listen.

Many flutes were given as gifts during the Winter Solstice that year. From that time forward, there has always been beautiful, haunting, music coming from Wolf Valley in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty.

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The Perfect Christmas Tree

Across the Fence #579


Have you ever gone from one Christmas tree farm or lot to another one, trying to find the perfect tree? You stand them up straight and rotate them around, inspecting them from every angle. Just when you think you found one, you notice it’s not even on every side. Then you discard that tree and move on to the next one.

One year I thought we had found a perfect tree, at least it was before we brought it home, but when I set it upright in the stand, it leaned considerably to the side. Then I noticed it took a 90-degree turn halfway up the trunk. Well, I may be exaggerating just a little on the 90-degree part, but it was very crooked. I decided to cut some of the trunk off to make it straighter, but then the bottom branches were uneven, so I sawed a little more off. By the time I got done sawing and straightening, our seven-foot tree was about four feet tall. But at least it stood up straight! 

Another time the trunk at the base was so thick it wouldn’t fit through the top of the tree stand. Again the trusty saw came out and once again our tree that had been $5.00 a foot was about $10.00 shorter by the time I finished cutting, trimming, and shaping. Uff da. 

Being a rather frugal Norwegian (Linda calls me cheap), I’d break into a cold sweat when I looked at the prices of artificial trees. I started calculating how many years of buying a “live” tree would add up to the cost of one artificial tree. Although, I don’t know why we call them live trees. When we cut a tree down, it’s pretty much a “dead” tree, at least in my mind. All the needles that dropped off and ended up on our carpet were testament to that.

I must admit, I like the “real” Christmas trees. I love the pine smell in the house. I hear some people buy those pine scent deodorizers you can get for a car, and hang them on the tree to get that natural scent. Somehow an artificial pine smell on an artificial tree just doesn’t seem very natural to me!

Around our house, a Christmas tree has multiple uses. I like to get my money’s worth. When we lived in Madison, after the holidays were over, the ornaments and lights were packed away for another year, and the tree was retired to our back yard. There it remained until spring to provide some shelter for the many birds that came to our yard to feed each day.

I didn’t let the other discarded trees in our neighborhood go to waste either. Before the city crews came around and ground them up, I’d carry, drag, or haul them down the street and into our backyard. Some years I had a regular pine forest to shelter the birds from snow and predators. Plus, they looked nice with all the snow hanging on their branches.

Our kids must have thought their father was deranged as I rescued discarded Christmas trees and drug them to the backyard, under cover of darkness of course. The neighbors probably wondered where their trees disappeared to overnight. Their suspicions were answered each spring when a pile of very dead Christmas trees appeared on our curb for pickup by the city crews.

I could tell we were one of the last holdouts in our neighborhood with a “live” tree, because each year my pine forest in the back yard got smaller. The last year we lived in Madison, I only had three live (dead)trees.

I understand why. It’s hard finding that “perfect” tree and the artificial ones become more real-looking each year. And of course, they’re all perfect! 
Even though I look for the perfect tree, I like the idea that a tree isn’t perfect, although those really crooked tree trunks did try my patience. I certainly have my share of imperfections so why should I expect a tree to be perfect? 

However, none of our trees could hold a candle—or ornament—to the one my mother’s family had when she was young. We have a photo of her brothers, LaMont and Cyril Hanson, standing in front of the most pitiful looking tree I’ve ever seen. It makes Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree look wonderful.

LaMont and Cyril

As I looked at the tree that had once served as the Christmas tree for my mother and her family, I noticed the decorations. They were as sparse as the tree. But, I imagine each one was lovingly placed on that tree. It looks like many, if not all of them, were hand-made. Those simple decorations may not have transformed the tree into a perfect tree in other people’s eyes, but I’m willing to bet it brought joy and the spirit of the Christmas season to their home.

I find the same is true with our trees. After the bare tree is decorated with ornaments and lights, it transforms even an imperfect tree into a near-perfect one. Each ornament has a history and a story to tell. Those memories of past Christmases return as each ornament is hung on the tree. 

Ornaments hand-made by our children when they were young; ornaments that once hung on our family trees when Linda and I were young; ornaments once made by my cousin Sandy each year; wood carved ornaments; special Hallmark ornaments… each one a story, each one a memory. All those things combine to transform our tree each year, into the perfect Christmas tree.

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