I went over to the folks house for lunch. Steaming chicken pot pies were on the menu.
When I step through the gate to their backyard I hear my dad holler, "Hey Dave, ask your mom if I've trimmed this branch back enough?" I turned to see him standing near a tree with a steel bladed lopper in his hands.
Come on everbody knows what a lopper is. I've always said that when working with one. "Hand me that lopper please so I can cut this branch." Never have I said, "Hand me that long handled tree cuttin' thing."
Back to dad and his lopper. When I saw him I nearly teared up as the memory of a spiny little Christmas tree zipped through my brain. We were living in Kentucky, I might've been nine and my sister, Cecelia, around seven.
It was Christmastime, snow on the ground and some flakes softly falling as Cecelia and I joined our father in the hunt for our Christmas tree. Norman Rockwell couldn't have painted it better.
It didn't take to long and we had it in the Rambler station wagon and were headed home. Dad said he just needed to trim it a little and then it would be ready to decorate. After dad's tree trimming he proudly brought it into our small living room and presented it to be decorated.
It was then I heard a wailing sound that caused me to suddenly turn. It was my sister Cecelia. I could just make out the words, "Can we glue some of the branches back on?" One thing about dad. Over all these years he has remained consistent. That Christmas tree from years past resembled the trees in the photos I added to this post. This time I didn't cry.