The Sound of Falling Needles… and Gingerbread Men
Last month when we walked through a favorite store, I spotted an artificial Christmas tree decorated with realistic looking gingerbread men. “Oh, I need to get a couple of those for Jeff and Greg.” I then explained to Bob the significance of the gingerbread men.
In the mid-sixties our little family relocated in LaPlace, Louisiana. My sons were five and three years old. The new house had a cathedral ceiling in the family room, just right for a taller than usual Christmas tree, for which we had to drive all the way to Baton Rouge to purchase. I decided to make old-fashioned decorations for the tree and spent numerous evenings stringing popcorn and cranberry garlands. The kids helped out by cutting and gluing paper chains. I baked dozens of gingerbread men, decorated them with icing, and tied them to the boughs of the tree. It was beautiful. Neighborhood children were invited to come see, and each took a gingerbread man home with them.
Then a warm spell struck. This was the Deep South… warmth, also meant humidity. First, the tree began to lose needles. Then the gingerbread men softened, pulled away from their cord ties… boing, boing, plop… dropping from branch to branch, and then onto the floor. I lay in bed at night and listened to the sound of falling needles, and the occasional “plunk.” Oh, oh. There goes another one. It was a race to the finish. Would the tree last until Christmas? Would there be any gingerbread men left “standing”? There is a snapshot in the family photo album… my former husband stands in the backyard, holding up what was left of the Christmas tree after all the presents were unwrapped on Christmas morning. Nothing more than bare branches and brown twigs… and no gingerbread men.
When I handed the newly purchased gingerbread man to my son Jeff a few weeks ago, I said, “Remember the gingerbread men falling off the tree?” No – he didn’t remember that. What he remembered was the new color television set we bought that Christmas season. Oh well, I guess gingerbread men falling to their death (so to speak) is only MY memory.
... P. L. Morningstar
In the mid-sixties our little family relocated in LaPlace, Louisiana. My sons were five and three years old. The new house had a cathedral ceiling in the family room, just right for a taller than usual Christmas tree, for which we had to drive all the way to Baton Rouge to purchase. I decided to make old-fashioned decorations for the tree and spent numerous evenings stringing popcorn and cranberry garlands. The kids helped out by cutting and gluing paper chains. I baked dozens of gingerbread men, decorated them with icing, and tied them to the boughs of the tree. It was beautiful. Neighborhood children were invited to come see, and each took a gingerbread man home with them.
Then a warm spell struck. This was the Deep South… warmth, also meant humidity. First, the tree began to lose needles. Then the gingerbread men softened, pulled away from their cord ties… boing, boing, plop… dropping from branch to branch, and then onto the floor. I lay in bed at night and listened to the sound of falling needles, and the occasional “plunk.” Oh, oh. There goes another one. It was a race to the finish. Would the tree last until Christmas? Would there be any gingerbread men left “standing”? There is a snapshot in the family photo album… my former husband stands in the backyard, holding up what was left of the Christmas tree after all the presents were unwrapped on Christmas morning. Nothing more than bare branches and brown twigs… and no gingerbread men.When I handed the newly purchased gingerbread man to my son Jeff a few weeks ago, I said, “Remember the gingerbread men falling off the tree?” No – he didn’t remember that. What he remembered was the new color television set we bought that Christmas season. Oh well, I guess gingerbread men falling to their death (so to speak) is only MY memory.
... P. L. Morningstar
posted by Looking for Hope | 1:05 PM
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