Pine cones and promises kept

I share this little essay with revisions reflecting life updates (like additional grandkids) and my ever-evolving style of writing on social media every year. It might ought to be a tradition on American Pokeweed as well. 

Our Christmas tree, like yours probably, is really a time capsule decorated with memories disguised as ornaments. I’ve got two or three from my childhood as well as the obligatory “Baby’s First Christmas” ornaments for our daughters and our grandchildren. But the most precious ornament on our tree is not one that was bought.

In late spring 1993, when it was still just the two of us that made our home, Christine and I moved to a rented single-wide trailer in the backwater regions (our yard flooded during any rain event, so literally) of Yell County, Arkansas, after two months of apartment living in town had driven me stir crazy. We spent our first Christmas together in that trailer. For our tree, I cut a way-too-big cedar we found just down the dirt road. It easily took up a quarter of the living room. What can I say, we liked full trees. We liked them tall, too. I had to take another foot and a half off so it wouldn’t scrape the ceiling.

We were also poor as church mice.

The core of who I am hasn’t changed at all, so if you know me it should come as no surprise to learn that way back in 1993 I had two or three part-time jobs that I sort of enjoyed rather than one full-time job I hated. I think I averaged $125 a week. Even back in the early 90s, this was definitely under the poverty line. Christine wasn’t making much better with her third-shift office work at a freezer storage, either. Tree ornaments fell far down the list of priorities, well below the pinto beans and ramen noodles, and below the meager gifts for each other we’d all but scraped change to purchase. 

But there was this little grove of pines growing on barely high ground behind our rented trailer. So we gathered a Walmart bag full of pine cones, bought one can of fake snow, and one bag of red ribbon bows.

Only one pine cone from that Christmas is still here for this Christmas.

It’s made it through 30 years of packing and unpacking Christmas decorations, two daughters, two granddaughters, one grandson, a few beloved dogs, and a few spoiled cats. It’s been with us through laughter, tears, and a few ugly arguments. It’s been a part of Christmases blissful as well as those winters weighted with anxiety. It’s hung on trees under which gifts overflowed. And it’s been there when we couldn’t hide the Christmas tree stand.

The fake snow has long since worn off. A few petals have broken, and we had to reattach the ribbon, but the pine cone is on this year’s tree. Its presence, nestled in the boughs between glittery bells and twinkling lights, says more than words ever could about promises and commitment, about faith and family, and most of all about love.

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