In the seventh grade I enjoyed a brief claim to fame when my poem, “If I Were a Christmas Tree,” captured a prize in the junior high school’s writing contest.

The fame was fleeting, but the memory remains: of me sitting on the kitchen counter, dangling my legs against the cabinets, while my mother bakes her spicy “rocks,” otherwise known in Maine as “hermits.” (Given how dry and hard the cookies invariably turned out, “rocks” more aptly described Mama’s version.)

So, while she overcooked and I overtalked, my little rhyme was concocted, not without collaboration – actually, significant contribution – on my mother’s part. Some of the lines follow:

If I were a Christmas tree standing in the cold,

I’d wonder who would want me or to whom I would be sold.

Would I some living room adorn with all my tinseled glory

Or would I still be waiting here to tell my Christmas story?

Among the evergreens I stand and dream my dream again,

To come alive at Christmastime and cheer the hearts of men.

We loved Christmas trees – all of them – from cedars to pines to the fragrant balsam firs, which were trucked down south and sold for a fortune in Christmas tree lots. Our family always bought a cheap cedar, which dried out so quickly the bubbling candle-lights made Mama nervous the whole Christmastime.

But that didn’t deter her – or my – joy when the tree stood proudly in the living room, lights strung, balls attached, garlands wound, and the magic of the season filled the house. We were in agreement, she and I, that there never was, or ever will be, an ugly Christmas tree. And, every year we lifted our voices to “O Tannenbaum,” simple, spindly cedar or not.

e.e. cummings must have felt the same way when he wrote “little tree:”

little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don’t be afraid

look the spangles

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i’ll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you’re quite dressed

you’ll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they’ll stare!

oh but you’ll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we’ll dance and sing

“Noel Noel”