THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS TREE
By Jean C. Fisher
The rain had been falling all day -- not heavily, but steadily -- as huge, dark-grey, ominous clouds swirled and changed shapes in the sullen sky. A cold gust of wind shook The Little Fir Tree as it lay on its side on the gravel -- two legs of its wooden stand jutting up into the air. . .
It was Christmas Eve and the large, green tent -- where the workmen had warmed themselves in between the sales of Christmas trees -- had been taken down. The hundreds of other fir trees, large and small, had all been adopted by families with bright, eager eyes; then whisked away to homes where warm fires crackled in fireplaces.
The Little Fir Tree had never seen a fireplace, but some of the older, larger trees had told him stories about the people and their homes with warm fireplaces. . .
They told him that, inside those warm houses, people worshipped the trees. They also told him that the people draped their trees with gold and silver and precious jewels just so they could gaze at them, every night, with wonder and joy. . .
The Little Tree wasn’t sure if it should believe everything the older trees told it about people -- especially the part about the precious jewels. "There’s always a chance that it could be true, though, and that would be nice," thought The Little Tree, smiling.
But no one had adopted The Little Tree. Not one of those families with bright, eager eyes had taken it home to worship -- let alone draped it in gold and silver or precious jewels or gazed at it with wonder and joy. . .
The Little Fir Tree shivered in the cold wind which caused a few drops of rain that had been clinging to its needles to drip onto the already-damp ground. It craned its neck around to survey the now-empty lot. It was all alone -- totally, completely and utterly alone.
Last night, the workmen pulled down the long strings of light bulbs that shined -- bright as day -- on the street corner every night since Thanksgiving. They packed the lights into their proper boxes and loaded them onto The Big Truck. Then, The Big Truck had taken them all back to the rambling, old barn at the edge of the forest to rest until next year.
The Little Tree thought that the light bulbs must have magical powers because each evening -- when the sunlight slowly turned into darkness -- one of the workman flipped a switch that kindled their bright light. Then, out of nowhere, crowds of people magically appeared and streamed into the lot on the corner of 12th Street and Lake Avenue.
But, it seemed as though the spell that The Magic Light Bulbs were able to cast over people slowly wore off because, night after night, the crowds grew smaller and smaller until last night when, finally, no one came to the lot at the corner of 12th Street and Lake Avenue -- no one at all.
As the chilly rain continued to fall, The Little Tree closed its eyes and thought of how different its life had been up until only a few weeks ago. . .
Until the week before Thanksgiving, The Little Fir Tree had lived its entire life surrounded by thousands of other fir trees -- both great and small -- on the gentle slope of a mountain.
Then, one crisp, cold morning, The Little Tree had been chosen by one of the workmen and fitted it with its own set of wooden legs. It was then that The Little Fir Tree knew that its destiny was to be what all of the other fir trees only hoped they’d become someday: A Beautiful Christmas Tree.
But Destiny is a fickle thing and it appeared as though a Beautiful Christmas Tree was something The LittleTree would never, ever become. As another gust of freezing-cold wind shook The Little Fir Tree’s branches, one, tiny tear trickled down its trunk and mixed with one of the rain drops before splashing onto the cold, wet ground .
The sun was well into its mysterious transformation from light into darkness when The Little Tree decided that it was probably best to give up all hope. It closed its eyes, sighed heavily and resigned itself to cruel Fate.
Once, a long time ago, the older, wiser trees had explained that, sometimes, trees were left on the Christmas-tree lot and never adopted by a family with bright, eager eyes. They told him that these were called "Leftover Trees" . . .
"It’s not possible for EVERY tree to become a Beautiful Christmas Tree," warned the Six-and-a-Half-Foot Noble Fir, "Why, it could happen to any one of us and we’ve just got to be prepared in case it does."
"So, I guess there’s no reason why it couldn’t happen to me," sniffed The Little Tree sadly.
Minute by minute, The Little Fir Tree felt the sap within it grow colder and colder as it felt itself begin to drift away. . . Soon, it could barely feel the sharp points of the gravel beneath it as it floated far, far away from the cold and the wind and the vacant lot. After a while, it couldn’t even feel the rain drops as they peppered its boughs with their slushy bodies.
That’s when a loud, shuddering, metallic sound jarred The Little Tree suddenly back into wakefulness! It opened its eyes to find the face of an old woman -- poised just a couple of inches away -- staring at it, intently.
The old woman was dressed in a tattered coat and she wore a red bandana tied snugly around her head -- knotted just below her chin.
She jabbed at The Little Tree a couple of times with a bare forefinger that was poking through the seam of a threadbare, once-white glove, "Tree, down! Tree, down!" the old woman mumbled, under her breath, "TIMmmmBERrrrrrr!"
Her sudden shout startled The Little Tree and it shivered with fear.
Even though The Little Tree was quite certain that, for the most part, humans weren’t able to see the movements that trees make on their own (when there’s no wind about), it seemed as though the old woman DID notice because she lowered her face even closer to The Little Tree and studied it with an even more intense look than before.
That’s when The Little Tree realized that the old woman had the brightest, bluest eyes it had ever seen. . . Her eyes were the color of a cloudless, mountain sky in summer and something The Little Tree saw reflected in the bluest-blue of the old lady’s eyes made it want to like her, even though it knew nothing about her.
"Are yer legs broken, son? Can ya walk? D’ya need some help?" the old lady asked as she pulled The Little Tree into an upright position to rest upon its stand.
The Little Fir Tree was shocked! No human had ever, EVER, in its entire LIFE, spoken directly to it -- EVER!
The old woman took the tip of one of The Little Fir Tree’s upper branches gingerly between a thumb and two fingers and pumped it gently up and down a couple of times, "Name’s Gladys Horngaggle. . . Pleased ta make yer acquaintance, Tree."
The Little Tree was simply amazed! Not only did this Gladys Horngaggle talk to trees -- she introduced herself to them! (The Little Tree thought that it was a most-civilized thing to do, though -- not to mention, extremely polite.)
"I’d like ta invite ya over ta my place," Gladys said proudly, "How about now? Are ya doin’ anything special right now?"
Before The Little Tree could answer, Gladys Horngaggle picked The Little Tree up and placed it into the battered shopping cart that she always pushed around town.
"So this is what caused all the racket, before," thought The Little Tree as it clattered down the street in the metal shopping cart, "This is just grand! From up here, I can see practically everything there IS to see!"
After a couple of blocks, Gladys stopped and pushed the cart into some tall bushes. "This is where the ride ends," she whispered, "We gotta walk from here, Tree."
With that, she plucked The Little Tree from the shopping cart and scrambled down a footpath that ran beside a small stream. When they reached a bridge over the stream, The Little Tree noticed that one side of the bank under the bridge had been enclosed with pieces of plywood and corrugated tin.
Gladys pushed one of the pieces of the plywood aside and placed The Little Tree inside the enclosure, then turned and pulled the plywood back over the opening once again.
Striking a match and touching it to the wick of a dented train lantern, Gladys then sat down upon a shabby automobile seat. She used the same match to light a battered, old camp stove upon which she set a coffee can filled with water.
"T’aint much," she chuckled, "But it keeps the wind offa ya and, to me, it’s Home Sweet Home."
Before long -- utilizing a much-used tea bag -- Gladys made herself a warm cup of tea in an old syrofoam cup. Then she sat back and looked The Little Tree up and down.
"You know what?" the old woman inquired, "I’ve got somethin' I think would be just perfect for you."
She set about rummaging in an old, wooden box that stood beside the shabby car seat and, in a moment, her hand emerged with something that looked to The Little Tree like a silver chain.
"Made it m’self!" Gladys puffed with pride, "See? It’s a pop-top chain! Made it outta them rings you pull up on sodey cans ta open ‘em. . . And I’m thinkin’ it’d look real nice on you! I don’’t wear it all that much anymore, anyways. . ." she added with a shrug as she began winding the aluminum chain around and around the branches of The Little Tree.
When she finished, Gladys sat back and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
"I believe it looks much better on you than it ever did on me. . ." she said, nodding her head up and down, "Yep, I surely do think so. . . You know," she added -- leaning forward, "If you don’t have a regular place ta stay -- you could stay here for awhile with me. . . I don’t wanna push ya into anything, mind ya, just. . . well. . . if ya wanted to, that is. . ."
Gladys didn’t wait for The Little Tree to answer. The Little Tree thought this was okay because, just for a moment, it caught a glimpse of admiration reflected in Gladys Horngaggle's blue, blue eyes. From that moment on, The Little Fir Tree knew that it would never, EVER be just some "Leftover Tree" because Gladys had seen to it that its destiny was fulfilled. From that moment forward, "The Little Fir Tree" would always be one of "The Beautiful Christmas Trees".
"So THIS is what it feels like to be worshiped," thought The Beautiful Little Christmas Tree, smiling, "You know, it DOES feel pretty nice, at that. . ."
--THE END--
Jean freelances from her home in Northern California. Her work has appeared in "California Wild" (CA Academy of Sciences), 3 volumes of ATriad Press' "Haunted Encounters" anthology series, "Rural Heritage" magazine, "The Front Porch" syndication, "GreenPrints" (The "Weeders Digest") and on several superior websites (including, of course, this very one!) Contact Jean.
