Christmas Tree (Monologue)

THE CHRISTMAS WE HAD TWO TREES (Monologue)


I remember the Christmas my grandma dragged home a madrone tree from up the hill instead of a real Christmas tree, and I thought the world was gonna end. As it was, I was having some trouble picturing Santa Claus squeezing his belly down the stove pipe in our new house. Besides, it was a sin NOT to have a real Christmas tree. We could get in trouble for it.

The Christmas before last, my Santa logic was seriously shaken when I saw all those Santas ringing bells over black cauldrons all over the City. Then, one of the Santas dragged me onto his lap. He asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I could see his beard was fake, there was this little bit of white elastic around his ears—like on my underwear, so I peed my pants and cried. Then they took my photo and laughed and put it on the mantle next to the angel.

Early Christmas morning, I tripped down the stairs, my head bouncing on each step did funny things to my vision. But when I rounded the corner and saw the Christmas tree with its glass bulbs and icicles blazing, it was like the sun on our diamond-rainbow glass cabinet, I forgot to cry. Huge piles of presents! All the little presents are mine, ’cause I’m the smallest. But why did Santa give me all these key rings? There must be some mistake. Was he still mad at me ’cause I peed my pants?

After that New Year, we moved, my grandma closed up the house with its diamond-rainbow glass cabinets where the Blue Willow bird bowls lived—I loved eating my cereal out of those bowls—and all the hidey-holes with old shoes and dust. I also loved how the fireplaces in every room whispered—sometimes you could hear cars driving in them.

We moved to the country, Grandma said it was our summer home. But it had a firebox attached to the stove—and it was our only heat. No more fireplace chimneys whispering, only a stovepipe the size of my grandma’s leg.

I remember I was newly five and my momma said I was on temporary loan to my grandmother to keep her company. When we moved, it broke up the family. Only the two of us. The aunts and uncles were all gone. I missed the dogs. Towser was all mine, and Mickey was my aunt Toddy’s. They were boxers. Grandma said that my parents were divorcing, and I knew both my uncle Myles and my grandpa were dead of cancer. But they always whispered that part.

I remember my grandpa standing at the front door, a suitcase in his hand, and he was saying goodbye. I wanted to know exactly where he was going ’cause Uncle Myles went away the same way too and he didn’t return from the hospital, they said that he would never return. I remember how his freckles looked like cereal flecks on his skin—it was all orangy-yellow like my crayons.

My grandpa’s voice was different, it was rough like the cat’s tongue. I don’t remember when it changed. Sometimes he’d whisper. Said his throat hurt too much. Was it the cigars? They made my throat hurt and my eyes too. He whispered, “To the hospital.”

And then I wanted to know when he’d be back. I was not ready for the answer of “heaven,” so I asked where else it was beside in the painted dome of the Star of the Sea church where I was baptized. Grandpa pointed up to the clouds in the blue sky and said something about angels. Sometimes they called me an angel, but mostly I was a little monster; did he find another angel he liked better? Was it ’cause I stamped my foot at him?

Of course I wanted to go too; he’d need someone to blow out his cigar matches there too, I said. They laughed and shuffled their feet nervously. I was born on his birthday, a whole month before Christmas, they said I was Grandpa’s little monster. They said I’d also learned some nasty habits from him—to cuss, and drink stale beer. I remember that I liked the taste of cigarette butts and licking the saltiness off the new red match heads.

I hid in a forest of legs watching the stained glass window spill its red and green light onto the black & white tile floor. If I went with my grandpa, would I see the rest of my family again? Why was everybody leaving? I was relieved when he didn’t ask me along with him. I just wrapped my arms around my grandma’s leg.

I don’t remember my grandpa returning home from the hospital, but they said he did—only to die again on New Year’s Eve. I don’t remember that part either but I do remember the doctor coming over and taking a bit of meat out of the big hole in his stomach. It looked like what they fed the dogs. Or bits of tuna. They said the whole family all returned home from their parties early. No one could exactly say why. Was heaven in the room, in the bed he died in?



Our first Christmas on our own in the country, I was mad ’cause Grandma sneaked out of the house without meearly in the morning before the fire was lit. She hiked up the top of the hill with the saw. I remember when she came home she was wearin’ lots of sweaters, and baggy black pants over her longjohns. She was dragging a bare madrone tree, the only leaves were in her hair—it always smelled of Wildroot—she put it on after every hairwash.

We have to heat water in a big tub, we don't have a hot water heater so she didn’t wash her hair very often. Sometimes she trimmed it herself with small scissors in front of the bureau mirror, with pictures of Jesus and Mary watching on, and there was a crucifix over a small crowd of perfume bottles—unused Christmas gifts. She said she liked the Bushmills better, dabbing it behind her ears.

I just wasn’t ready to let go of the Christmas Tree, so I trudged up the ridge in a drizzle on ly tiny five-year-old legs and dragged home my own tree that I cut down myself—it was a fir that was more sprout than tree. We made another cross for the base and the two trees stood tied side by side, my tree was too weak to hold ornaments or lights, and the one angel we had kept doing swan-dives off the top. But the red-skinned madrone tree, with its lights, silver glass balls and songbirds, was strong enough to hold up the Christmas angel. So I climbed up the ladder and placed her at the crown of Grandma’s tree.

Her madrone tree was beautiful, but at the time, it just didn’t feel right. I remember she told me the story of Rhiannon’s Birds, how their song could make the dead come alive and the living to forget everything. But I didn’t forget. She said we were building a new life, starting with the bones of the tree. And the red-skinned madrone, peeling from the heat of the firebox, showed us the heartwood under it—green with the promise of life to come in spring.



© 2002 Maureen Hurley for Roy Conboy's monologue class. Well, Grandma never said that last part, she didn't articulate feelings like that, she was more private, but it needed an ending...

The Christmas We Had Two Trees (Prose) v2

The Christmas my grandmother broke with tradition and returned home dragging a bare madrone tree instead of the typical evergreen tree, I was thoroughly scandalized. Already on shaky ground with the thought of Santa Claus squeezing his girth down the stovepipe—no more than my plump Irish grandmother could do—I was convinced it was an unwritten sin NOT to have a real tree. These Things Mattered. The world might end if we didn’t stick to the pattern.

The previous Christmas I’d had my Santa logic seriously challenged with multiple Santas ringing bells over black cauldrons on street corners. Then one Santa dragged my onto his lap, I could see his beard was fake so I wet my pants and cried.

Early Christmas morning I tripped down the stairs, head over heels, but the sight of the Christmas tree with its multicolored glass bulbs and icicles caught my attention; I forgot to cry. All those presents! Since I was the smallest, I reasoned all the small presents were mine. Bewildered, I stared at a dozen key ring sets nestled in shredded wrapping paper.

The New Year: we closed up the three-storey Victorian house on California Street in San Francisco with its leaded glass cabinets, mahogany paneling, hidey-holes, fireplaces in every room, and moved to our West Marin summer home with its firebox attached to the Wedgewood stove—our only source of heat. No fireplace chimneys, only a stovepipe the size of my leg.

I was newly five and on loan to my grandmother to keep her company: from a bustling household of a baker’s dozen, we were reduced to only two: the aunts and uncles scattered to the winds, my parents were divorcing, both my uncle Myles and my grandfather, dead of cancer.

Etched into memory: the indelible image of my grandfather standing at the front door with suitcase in hand, saying goodbye. Suspicious, I wanted to know exactly where he was you going for Uncle Myles hadn’t returned from the hospital, would never return. I remember an archipelago of freckles set adrift on the bilious sea of jaundiced skin, his punishment for burning a mole with a cigarette.

Later I learned to wrap my mouth around the word “melanoma” and to watch my own skin.

My grandfather rasped, his soft Irish brogue interrupted by the throat cancer, “to the hospital.”

I demanded in typical almost five-year-old temerity, “When will you be back?”

Startled by the answer of “heaven,” I asked where else it was beside trapped in the vast painted dome of the Star of the Sea church.

My grandfather pointed up to the clouds grazing the brilliant blue sky and mentioned something of angels.

Of course I wanted to come too; he’d need someone to blow out his cigar matches there as well, I reasoned.

They laughed uncomfortably and shuffled their feet.

I was born on his birthday, a month before Christmas Eve, we were twins separated at birth by 60 years. Incorrigible equals in temper and temperament, I was Grandpa’s little monster: at a tender age, I’d learned some nasty habits from him—to cuss, smoke cigars and drink beer—to the horror of my family. Between tantrums, I wasn’t above snacking on stale cigarette butts soaked in beer or licking the festive red and white sulphur match sticks.

Uneasily I stood amid a forest of legs watching the stained glass window spill its crimson and green tide onto the black and white tile floor, the known world unraveling at the seams. If I went with my grandfather, would I see my family again?

I was relieved when he didn’t ask me along. I wrapped my arms around my grandmother’s leg. I don’t remember my grandfather returning home from the hospital, but he did—only to die New Year’s Eve.

The family all returned home from their New Years’ parties early. No one could say exactly why: a premonition. Our last year together as an extended family. Little did we know my mother's loan of myself to my grandmother was to last some twenty Christmases until I moved away from home.

Our first Christmas season on our own in the country, I was miffed that my grandmother managed to sneak out of the house undetected by me on the morning of St. Nicholas’ Day. (Dec. 6th; Old Saint Nicholas/ Sinterclaus/ Santa Claus is the patron saint of children and sailors).

My grandmother hiked up the hill with tree saw in hand, bundled in sweaters, longjohns, and baggy homemade black pants; she returned home the hunter dragging a bare madrone tree, a nest of leaves and twigs in her hair—smelling faintly of Wildroot—she swore by the men’s restorative hair tonic. Not that she was in any danger of going bald with a thick white thatch of hair she trimmed herself in front of the bureau mirror, with an audience of Jesus and Mary behind their gilt frames and a crucifix overlooking the unused bureau brush set and a small harbor of perfume bottles—unopened Christmas gifts. She preferred the heady scent of Bushmills. Uisge beatha, she’d say, giggling, water of life, dabbing it behind her ears.

At a loss, I wasn’t prepared to let go of the Christmas Tree symbol too. Ever the determined curmudgeon, I trudged up the ridge in a drizzle with my short five year old legs, and dragged home my own tree: a spindly Douglas fir that was more sprout than tree.

We made another cross for the base and the two trees stood side by side. My green tree was far too weak to hold ornaments or lights, the one angel we had kept doing swan-dives off the top. But the red-skinned madrone tree, aglow with its lights, silver glass balls and songbirds, was strong enough to hold up the Christmas angel. Begrudgingly, I climbed up the ladder and placed her at the crown of Grandma’s tree.

In retrospect, her madrone tree was beautiful, but at the time it just didn’t feel right. Only now does the metaphor shine through the branches of that tree, ten years after her death.

Resurrecting pieces of the story of Rhiannon’s Birds, we were building a new life, starting with the bones of the tree, the grief shining through the skeletal branches, the red-skinned flesh of madrone, peeling from the heat, revealed the green heartwood beneath, with the promise of the life to come in spring.

© 1990?   1997  Maureen Hurley

The Christmas We Had Two Tress rev 3

THE CHRISTMAS WE HAD TWO TREES

THE Christmas my grandmother broke with tradition and returned home dragging a bare madrone tree instead of the typical evergreen tree, I was thoroughly scandalized. Already on shaky ground with the thought of Santa Claus squeezing his girth down the stovepipe—no more than my grandmother could do—I was convinced it was an unwritten sin NOT to have a real tree. These Things Mattered. The world might end if we didn’t stick to the pattern.

The previous Christmas I’d had my Santa logic seriously challenged with multiple Santas ringing bells over black cauldrons on street corners. Then one Santa dragged my onto his lap, I could see his beard was fake, so I wet my pants and cried. Besides, I knew where Santa lived. That nonsense about north poles was just grown-up talk to kids. Didn’t I just see him on the hill straddling the Presidio tunnel? Early Christmas morning I tripped down the stairs, bumping each step ass over teakettle, but the sight of the Christmas tree with its multicolored glass bulbs and icicles dazzled me; I forgot to cry. All those presents! Since I was the smallest, I reasoned all the small presents were mine. Bewildered, I stared at a dozen key ring sets nestled in shredded wrapping paper, jingling them—their false notes grated.

The New Year: we closed up the three-storey Victorian house on California Street with its leaded glass cabinets, mahogany paneling, hidey-holes, fireplaces in every room, and moved to our West Marin summer home with its firebox attached to the Wedgwood stove—our only source of heat. No fireplace chimneys, only a stovepipe the size of my leg. I was newly five and on loan to my grandmother to keep her company: from a bustling household of a baker’s dozen, we were reduced to only two: the aunts and uncles scattered by the winds of change, my parents were divorcing, both my uncle Myles and my grandfather, dead of cancer.

Etched into memory: the indelible image of my grandfather standing at the front door, with suitcase in hand, saying goodbye. Suspicious, I wanted to know exactly where he was going for Uncle Myles hadn’t returned from the hospital, would never return. I remember an archipelago of freckles set adrift on the bilious sea of his jaundiced skin, his punishment for burning a mole with a cigarette. Later I learned to wrap my mouth around the music of “melanoma” and to watch my skin for messages from the dead.

Standing at the front door with suitcase in hand, my grandfather rasped—his soft Irish brogue interrupted by the throat cancer—that he was going “to the hospital.” I demanded, “When will you be back?” Startled by the answer of “heaven,” I asked where else it was located beside in the vast painted dome of the Star of the Sea church where I was baptized. He pointed up to the clouds grazing the brilliant blue sky and mentioned something about angels. Of course I wanted to come; he’d need someone to blow out his cigar matches there too, I reasoned. They laughed uncomfortably and shuffled their feet. Born on his birthday, a month before Christmas Eve, we were twins separated at birth by 60 years. Incorrigible equals in temperament, I was Grandpa’s little monster: at a tender age, I’d learned some nasty habits from him—to cuss, smoke cigars and drink beer—to the horror of my family. Between tantrums, I wasn’t above snacking on stale cigarette butts or licking salty match heads.

Uneasily I stood amid a forest of legs watching the stained glass window spill its crimson and green tide onto the black and white tile floor, the known world unraveling at the seams. If I went with my grandfather, would I see my family again? Why would anyone choose heaven over this blue sky? I was relieved when he didn’t ask me along. I wrapped my arms around my grandmother’s leg. I don’t remember my grandfather returning home from the hospital, but they say he did—only to die New Year’s Eve. They say the family members all returned home from their New Years’ parties early. No one could say exactly why: a premonition. Our last year together as an extended family. Little did we know the loan of myself to my grandmother was to last twenty Christmases until I moved away from home.

* * * * * * *

Our first Christmas season on our own, I was miffed that my grandmother managed to sneak out of the house undetected on the morning of St. Nicholas’ Day without me. She hiked up the hill with saw in hand, bundled in sweaters, longjohns, and baggy homemade black pants; she returned home the hunter dragging a bare madrone tree, a nest of leaves and twigs in her hair—smelling faintly of Wildroot—she swore by the men’s restorative hair tonic. Not that she was in any danger of going bald with a thick white thatch of hair she trimmed herself in front of the bureau mirror, to an audience of Jesus and Mary behind their gilt frames and a crucifix overlooking the unused bureau brush set where a small harbor of bottles—decades of unopened Christmas gifts patiently waited liberation. She preferred the heady scent of Black Label Bushmills. Uisge beatha, she’d say, giggling, water of life, dabbing it behind her ears.

At a loss, I wasn’t prepared to let go of the Christmas Tree symbol too, ever the curmudgeon, I trudged up the ridge in a drizzle and dragged home my own tree: a spindly Douglas fir that was more sprout than tree. We made another cross for the base and the two trees stood side by side, my green tree was far too weak to hold ornaments or lights, the one angel we owned kept doing swan-dives off the top. But the red-skinned madrone tree, aglow with its lights, silver glass balls and songbirds, was strong enough to hold up the Christmas angel. Begrudgingly, I climbed up the ladder, placed her at the crown of Grandma’s tree, and a tinfoil star on mine. Her madrone tree was beautiful, but at the time it just didn’t feel right. Old habits die hard—even for young children. Only now does the metaphor shine through the branches of that tree, ten years after her death. Resurrecting pieces of the story of Rhiannon’s Birds, we were building a new life, starting with the bones of the tree, the grief shining through the skeletal branches, the red-skinned flesh of madrone, peeling from the heat, revealed the green heartwood beneath, with the promise of the life to come in spring.

© 1997  rev 2000 Maureen Hurley  for Dan Langton class

Getting a Christmas Tree in Sonoma County, long version, no tear sheet

SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS

One Christmas we had two trees. At the tender age of five, I was scandalized when my grandmother brought home a madrone tree instead of the usual Christmas tree.

Already on shaky ground with the concept of Santa Claus not fitting down the stovepipe, I was convinced it was an unwritten sin NOT to have an evergreen tree.

I wasn't prepared to let go of the Christmas Tree symbol, so I trudged up the hill and dragged home a spindly Douglas fir that was more seedling than tree.

The two trees stood side by side, my tree too weak to hold ornaments or lights, and the red skinned bare-branched madrone aglow with silver glass balls and birds.

I begrudgingly admit her tree was beautiful but it just didn't feel right--like a dog eating cat food.

If you're wondering why the tradition of Christmas trees arose, it's a remnant of a pre-Christian symbol, like Easter eggs and Hallowe'en.

In the Nordic countries of Europe, when a house was built, a pine tree was tied to the eaves or chimney to ensure good luck. In the Ukraine and many parts of Russia, the fir tree, covered in red bows, was used for wedding processions and festivities.

During the mid-winter holidays, pine and fir boughs were spread on the floors and other evergreen plants wreathed around each window-—perhaps to remind the sun that even in the midst of darkness, life flourished—though the rest of the ground be barren.

My Victorian grandmother said Christmas trees didn't exist in Ireland and England until recently, but evergreens were traditionally brought into the house--especially the holly, the ivy and the mistletoe.

The ballad, "A Wassail Song" claims the wassail cup is made of the rosemary tree.

"Here we go a wassailing among the leaves so green."

Wassail, in Old Scandinavian means to "be well."

And of course, there's the Yule Log, usually a pine log decorated with evergreens and berries that Good King Wenceslaus warmed his feet by.

The Oxford English Dictionary claims a recent adoption of the custom of the Christmas tree during the early reign of Queen Victoria. The Christmas custom of the small fir tree decorated with candles, ribbons and presents probably originated in Germany.

I found an early reference in 1789, from a Mrs. Papendick's journal, "Mr. Papendick proposed an illuminated tree according to the German fashion."

According to Hazlett Brand's "Popular Antiquities" published in 1870:

"[T]he Christmas tree...came to us from Germany directly...and is still (1869) a flourishing institution among us."

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaun
Wie treu sind diente Blatter!
Not only green in Summer's heat
But also winter's snow and sleet,
Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree
With faithful leaves unchanging
...hope and love and faithfulness
Are precious things I can possess.
Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree,
Your leaves will teach me also.

And Christmas trees are still a flourishing institution among us.

Christmas The Paper, 11/22/89 (tearsheet)