The Year of the Christmas Tree Woes

 

As parents of a growing brood of Children, Jerry and I did what we could to prevent most Christmas tree woes.  We waited until one or two weeks before Christmas to even set up our tree, and we took it down shortly after Christmas.  Still, during that week or two prior to Christmas, ornaments the toddlers were interested in, would need to be moved and placed on a higher branch out of the reach of curious little hands.  I made the claim that ornaments would start, “marching up the tree.”

One of the ornaments on our tree, was our son Christopher’s favorite.  It was a sleeping Santa in an overstuffed upholstered blue chair.  Even though it was resin, not ceramic, I put it up near the top of the tree out of Christopher’s reach lest it walk off and get lost. 

In 1993, my husband Jerry was called to serve as Bishop of the Plano 4^th Ward in Plano, Texas.  That year we decided to have a Christmas Party for the Ward leadership in our home so that those leaders could become better acquainted with their new Bishop and his wife.  Little did we know the problems we would encounter that would make this such a difficult endeavor.

The previous year, a little black and white kitten adopted us.  She was cute and adorable.  I walked by the Christmas tree one day to discover her beady little eyes peering out at me from between two branches about halfway up the tree.  She looked so cute, that I just left her there.  I reasoned that she had gotten in without upsetting any lights or ornaments, so she could probably get out.  She did that, several more times that Christmas season.

Fast forward one year, when I was busy getting ready to welcome the Ward leadership into our home.  As the day approached, I cleaned and decorated furiously to prepare for the event.  A few days before the party was to occur, as I stood working at the kitchen sink, I heard a crash from the direction of the living room.  I rushed toward the sound of the crash to see our cat jumping from the center of the Christmas tree, which was prone on the carpeted floor.  It was obvious that the cat was the cause of the tree having fallen.  No longer a tiny kitten, she had grown enough to topple the tree.  As I went to pick it up, I discovered that the stand was broken.  This put me in full panic.  I called the manufacturer of the tree.  They overnighted me a new stand.  By the next evening the tree was standing again, no worse for the wear.

The morning after our tree had been restored to its upright position, I was again working in the kitchen, when I heard a too familiar sounding crash.  I rushed in to find an upset Christopher.  He had decided to climb up and get his favorite ornament and in doing so, had toppled the tree, breaking the stand.  He proceeded to blame me for placing it out of his easy reach.  Rather than argue with a four-year-old, I went straight to the phone and called the tree manufacturer’s customer service again.  This time, I had them overnight two stands. 

The Ward leadership Christmas party was a success.  No one even knew the problems we had encountered.  We used that tree for many more years, finally replacing it in 2017.  Last year in cleaning through Christmas things in the attic, we found the extra stand, which had never been used, and threw it away.

One of our Christmas customs was to get a new ornament each year for each member of the family.  When the children left home for good (generally signaled by their getting married), I packed up their box of ornaments to give to them. Several years ago, I gave Christopher our one and only copy of the sleeping Santa ornament.  It is now proudly displayed on his tree every year.

The Funeral of My Great Grandmother (Which I Did Not Get to Attend)

 “If you don’t touch her,” admonished Aunt Berdene as I stood with her in front of an open casket, “you won’t really believe she is dead.”  I allowed her to take my small hand and gently stroke the cheek of my recently deceased great grandmother.  It was not particularly traumatic to me, but I do remember feeling hesitant.  It was the first time I had seen a dead human body, let alone touched one. I do remember thinking she looked lovely.  All the lines of pain and worry had been erased from that face I knew and loved.  I left her viewing that evening, knowing that the part of her that made her, her, was not still inside the body she left behind for us to view (and touch).  I knew she was dead.  Her skin no longer felt like real skin. I believed that what the adults were saying was true.  I believed (and still do), that Grandmother Martha Anna Wilcox Westwood Foy had gone on to a better place.

The next day was to be her funeral.  It was to be held at the local Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (of which we are members) on Locust Lane in Moab, Utah.  There was only one hitch.  With the Uranium boom and the subsequent population explosion, the local schools did not have enough room for the increased enrollment.  The entire third grade of the Southeast Elementary I attended, had been moved across the street to the Church while the school was being enlarged.  I happened to be in that third grade.

That lovely September morning, I went to school just as normal.  My parents had said nothing to me about the funeral. I may not have known that it was to be that day.  I just presumed I would be going to her funeral whenever it was to be held. Shortly after the start of the school day, the principal, Mr. Wimmer, came into the Junior Sunday School room where the entire third grade was assembled. 

“We all need to be especially quiet this morning,” he announced, “because the funeral of a very elderly and well-respected lady, is being held here today.”

I raised my hand. “That’s my Grandma,” I said as it dawned on me who the funeral was for. “I’m supposed to go to her funeral.”

“If you are,” replied the principal, “someone will come and get you.”  With that, he left the room, and we went on with our lessons.

A short time later that morning, I started hearing organ music playing.  The prelude music for Grandma’s funeral was starting.  Still, no sign of my parents whom I assumed would appear any minute to escort me down the hall and into the chapel.   I approached my teacher, “That’s my grandma,” I said almost tearfully. “I’m supposed to go to her funeral.”

“If you are,” assured my teacher, “your parents will come and get you.”

I continued to wait, as the prelude music turned into talking.  I could make out none of the muffled words of the prayers and talks although the voices sounded familiar.  Special musical numbers separated the talking. Slowly, it began to dawn on me that I would not be attending my great grandmother’s funeral.  I felt defeated.  Eventually, I was aware that all the talking and the music had stopped. My parents and the many relatives undoubtedly had exited the building to go to the cemetery just a few blocks away from the church.  That afternoon after school, I did not confront my parents.  I don’t think they ever knew of my disappointment and hurt at being left out of attending Grandma Foy’s funeral.

Even today, as I recount this story of the funeral I didn’t get to attend (although I was in the building while it was going on), the tears are close to the surface.  I find myself wishing that I had simply slipped out of the classroom and booked it down the hall to the chapel.  I could have found my parents and squeezed in beside them.  I doubt anyone would have disrupted the funeral to retrieve me or send me back.  It is certainly not my biggest regret in life, but it is probably the only time I regret being too obedient.