Travis Bumgardner illustration
An Appalachian Christmas Tree
The search began in the woods, often during a family hike. Or perhaps during a solo jaunt to check on the ramp patch. In the way back woods of Appalachia circa 1978, everyone I knew had a special place where they procured a tree for the holidays. A place where perfection is cultivated. The men of Appalachia know this land and the tree they would eventually remove from this place and carry home, but only when the time was right.
“This’n will make a fine Christmas tree one day,” the men said, knowing after years of touching the limbs with calloused fingertips, exactly when that day would be. Each year they visited. Each year they promised the tree she would one day come home with them.
The tree grew and thrived in the mountains that is now a place where few men have the time to tread; where generations of men once took beagles rabbit hunting; where the famed Plott hounds ran the ridgeline with their noses down and their tails curled up, searching, always searching for a scent.
The place, as with all old growth forests, is holy ground. Sometimes I wonder, does the forest miss our visits?
The tree waited in the deep recess of the forest for the one who would cut her down and carry her home. Her journey began on the wind as a scattered seed delicately placed in the understory, or along the outer edges of old growth trees where falling leaves cover the seeds, decay over the winter, and provide food for the plantlet as it grows from a tender sapling into a young tree. The tree is grateful for placement near its ancestors who whisper the ways of evergreens and hardwoods.
During subsequent jaunts, the men take note of the saplings and preselect those that will grow straight and tall. They cut away honeysuckle, and kudzu, and morning glory vines, along with anything else that might impede progress. The tree is grateful to have a magical place in which to grow, as am I.
North Carolina is the second largest provider of Christmas trees in the nation, with Western North Carolina producing around 20 million trees. It is in elevations—above 4,500 feet—where the most popular varieties thrive. Here in the rocky, fertile soil, Frasier Fir and Blue Spruce blanket the hillsides under the careful watch of man.
The tree knows it will one day be cut down, bound up tight, and sent across the United States. Upon reaching its destination, the tree unfurls with a knowing shake and stretches out strong boughs upon which decorative ornaments will soon be hung. If humans pay careful attention—and most do not—they can watch the tree swell with pride; for a Christmas tree knows its purpose is to bring beauty and light into the dark world. The tree understands this from the moment the seed takes root in the mountainous soil.
Christmas trees of my childhood weren’t firs or spruce, they were white pine or the occasional cedar. Momma wasn’t too keen on cedars. They were too prickly and she believed their limbs weren’t strong enough to support the weight of the decorations. I agreed.
When the time was right, which was never the day after Thanksgiving, the men entered the woods armed with a handsaw and a sense of direction that no modern-day GPS can match. Kneeling, they told the tree it was time. The tree rocked back and forth during the sawing, agreeing to its destiny. The men tied bailing twine they’d taken from the barn around the limbs and hoisted the tree onto their backs then headed home, stopping only to readjust the tree as their backs grew sore.
The women had a pot of chili on the stove and a cornbread pone in the oven. They kept the children occupied with popcorn, a needle and thread. The children had one job: stringing popcorn garland, which is far more difficult than any influencer would have you believe today. Truth be told, we ate most of the popcorn. Some homes also decorated using cranberry garland, but whole cranberries weren’t readily available in Appalachia during my grow-up years.
The sound of hammering signaled us to hurry and find the decorations which were in the attic, or under the bed, or in the dark corner of the closet; wherever Mother had them stored. Poppa banged two pieces of wood together in an X shape, then nailed the tree to the makeshift stand. It took a special kind of Poppa to secure a white pine to the wood so it would withstand the weight of the decorations without tipping over. Because self-watering tree stands weren’t readily available, we didn’t “put up” our tree too early, else all the needles fall away due to dryness. Self-watering tree stands would come years later and somehow still managed to tip and fall away. Each January, the men of Appalachia lowered trees into the lake, providing shelter for fish.
The tree knew it was loved and appreciated from birth until death.
With the bare tree situated in the living room, Momma unwrapped the first decoration, Angel, and passed it to Poppa along with the kitchen broom. Using the broom, he carefully positioned Angel on top of the tree. Angel had tiny white lights inside her body, which were the only white lights on the tree.
The real lights came next. Heavy as a bucket of wet sand, these tear-drop-shaped pieces of glass in the colors red, blue, orange and green, grew hot as a firecracker the longer they remained plugged into the outlet.
Brother and I remember one year he went to plug in the tree. Back then, lights came without a fuse protector. A loud pop sounded, and Brother and I looked at each other, eyes wide, as the tree caught fire faster than we could blink. The phrase, “lit up like a Christmas tree,” is accurate.
“Daaaaaaad!” I yelled. “The tree is on fire.”
I shall never forget the image of Poppa bounding up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He grabbed hold of the tree and hurled it out the kitchen window while Momma stomped the life out of the flames licking away at her new carpet.
This was why we never kept the tree lights on during the night. Momma liked to end the evening sitting in the dark living room with the curtains pulled back watching the lights reflect in the picture window. She had a fondness of the simpler things, and most of our holidays included a Charlie Brown tree, except for the year she was battling ovarian cancer. That year she and my daughter traced a tree on the back of a large sheet of cardboard. My daughter used buds of crayons to color the tree. Mom cut out the shape and poked smaller- much safer—lights through the holes she and my daughter made.
Of all the trees, this one was her favorite. The one she and her first born grandchild made together.
The tree used to make the cardboard was pleased.