One morning, however, I went to take my satchel off the hook where I always kept it and the hook was empty.
I searched everywhere—under every piece of furniture, inside every cabinet. I wandered all over the grounds, all the way to the main road, through the orchards, everywhere.
Nothing.
I was miserable. By then that satchel had traveled far with me. I had the feeling that without it I might not have become friends with Tree—it was showing him the treasures I carried in the satchel that first made me feel at home with him. Probably most important, it was the only physical thing I had left from my past.
For days I searched, inside and out.
Late one morning Sister Frances found me sitting on the back step leading into the kitchen.
“Have you looked everywhere?” she asked.
I nodded miserably, staring at the ground.
“You might try asking Saint Anthony to help you,” she said.
I looked up. “Who is he?”
“He was a very kind man who lived long ago, and who had a special gift for helping people find things. Say a little prayer and maybe he can help you,” said Sister Frances.
I did as she advised. I prayed very hard—in chapel with the nuns, then again, standing next to Tree. And I thought very hard as well, trying to remember the last time I’d felt the weight of my satchel on my shoulder. But even with all my praying and concentrating I just couldn’t find it.
The loss discouraged me so much that not even Tree could comfort me. One afternoon, after our daily visit, I felt too low to follow my usual route back to the convent. Instead I turned down a winding path that led to the creek—a path I’d discovered only a short time before.
I was walking along listening to the twigs crackling under my feet when suddenly I saw something brown beneath a patch of ferns. My heart started beating fast.
“Please, please, please,” I said, closing my eyes. “If it’s my satchel I’ll never forget you, Saint Anthony.”
I brushed aside the ferns. There it was, my funny satchel with its many straps and buckles. Nothing had ever seemed so beautiful to me as that little leather bag. I must have lost it the day I’d discovered the path to the creek—and then completely forgotten I’d been down there.
I kept my word. I never forgot Saint Anthony. On the day I decided to become a nun, I took his name, hoping that maybe someday I could help somebody find something important the way he had helped me.
Chapter Six
The Blizzard
It was the kind of storm that would make history. Children would grow up and tell their children and their children’s children where they were when the blizzard hit. No one would ever forget the night the wind howled like wild prairie dogs gone mad and sent families running for their cellars if they had them, or left them quaking under their covers if they didn’t.
It was the night the world turned white. The air was so thick with snow you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face if you were foolhardy enough to go out, and when the wind finally stopped, the drifts were piled so high it looked as if new mountain ranges had sprung up overnight.
I was out of the country at the time, on a much-needed vacation after the Christmas rush, checking out the plant life in Mexico so I could call it a work trip. But I heard about it later—in excruciating detail—from everyone I knew. The only reports that really interested me, though, were the ones that came from Brush Creek, first from Sister Frances, then from Sister Anthony. This is what I pieced together.
❄ ❄ ❄
Apparently, the nuns spent most of that night in prayer—for travelers on the road, for the people living in homes without enough heat and for all the animals who might not find places to hide from the storm. Sister Anthony said a special prayer for Tree. She was sick with fear for him. She was well aware of the life span of a Norway spruce, and Tree was testing the limits, even though his branches had remained thick and strong long past the time they might have started snapping and fraying.
When she finally went to sleep that night she told herself she would go out to see Tree in the morning, as soon as the wind died down. But she couldn’t go to see Tree the next day. In fact, for three whole days the nuns were trapped inside the convent by giant icicles that had formed during the storm. Somehow the heat from the house had melted the snow on the roof just enough to send it dripping down the sides, where it had frozen once again into enormous icicles. None of them had ever seen anything like it. It wasn’t just their size that was startling, it was their shape. They were curved, like the sides of a harp.
They were beautiful. The few nuns who were staying at the convent when the storm hit all gathered around the big windows after breakfast and stared in silence.
“Perhaps they are a sign from God, like the dove after the flood,” said one of the nuns.
“That may be,” said Sister Frances. “But whatever they are they’re keeping us right here. It could be dangerous to try and knock them down. Probably bring a sheet of ice down on our heads.”
Sister Anthony spent many hours over the next couple of days staring out of the windows. She couldn’t rest until she found out what had happened to Tree. Was he still standing?
Three days after the blizzard she was awakened by a loud crash. Then another, and another. She looked out of the window and saw big indentations in the snow below, and shards of glistening ice. The icicles had fallen.
That afternoon, dressed as warmly as possible, she set out. The peaceful walk that she had taken almost every day of her life, no matter what the weather, now seemed like a difficult journey.
It wasn’t just the snow, which was two feet deep in the shallowest places, but seeing the full extent of the blizzard’s fury. The peacefulness of the thick white covering it had left behind was deceptive. Much had been destroyed and the carnage was terrible. Bushes had been uprooted and the pathways were littered with broken branches and great pieces of bark. Worst of all were the roots dangling in the air from the trunks of the giant trees that had been brought down by the wind.
It was eerily still, as if every living thing had been buried under the snow. The hills that had always been so full of life now seemed more like a frozen graveyard.
Eventually, Sister Anthony reached the stand of trees that led to the clearing. Her heart lifted when she saw that most of them were still upright, but then she remembered Tree didn’t have the protection of other trees. He stood alone, completely vulnerable to the storm.
She pushed on, walking as firmly as she could through the snow. Finally, she stood at the edge of the clearing and with a small cry sank to her knees.
There was Tree, his vast green branches waving gently, as if it were a spring afternoon and everything was the same as it had always been.
Sister Anthony picked herself up and went over to her friend. She laid her cheek against his bark. He felt strong as ever, and warm against her icy face.
Cold as she was, she stayed there a long time, as though to assure Tree that she would always be by his side. Finally she turned and was walking slowly toward the convent when she was overcome by the sensation that Tree was gone. She made her way back as fast as the snow allowed, struggling for the second time that day up the slope that led to the clearing. But there was Tree, proud and tall against the fading light.
❄ ❄ ❄
Still, the awful feeling that Tree had been damaged somehow by the storm wouldn’t go away. She began to worry more and more about Tree’s health. After a severe winter a tree could look healthy for a while, but it might well be vulnerable to being toppled, like the big trees that had fallen that winter. In fact, one more harsh winter might do Tree in.
After all, no matter how well he looked, he was very old for a Norway spruce.
Day after day she visited Tree, studying him from every angle. He looked so strong and powerful, she couldn�
��t imagine that he could be weak inside. But she couldn’t ignore all the trees lying on the ground, trees that had seemed invulnerable before the storm that were now split open, splintered into pieces. She knew she couldn’t stand to see her friend come to such an end.
Spring came. The earth thawed, the grounds were cleared of the sad remains of the storm and once again the children began meeting with Sister Anthony in the clearing next to Tree.
❄ ❄ ❄
That’s when I got the call. She was casual, asking if I’d like to come up for the day—but I knew there was more to it than that.
I sat with the children in a circle and listened as she began to talk quietly.
“I was thinking about something I wanted to tell you—about the first time I realized that both Tree and I had grown up. He had shot up past me a number of years before and his branches were wonderfully thick and strong. Now the red crossbills hung upside down on his branches and pecked at his cones and he offered shelter to many birds—robins, sparrows, purple finches, chickadees, and of course the myrtle warblers, the birds with the yellow markings who first greeted me with their check check check when Tree and I first met. Tree welcomed them all.”
As she spoke, she was accompanied by various trillings and warblings, as if the birds were responding to a roll call. Although she was looking directly at the children, she seemed very far away.
“I remember our conversation very well. I was leaning against his trunk, telling him how Sister Frances kept urging me to think about going out into the world, about maybe becoming a horticulturist or a teacher. I knew she wanted what was best for me but I knew what would make me happy.
“I knew that I loved it here, listening to the birds calling one another and to the sound of the wind tickling the tops of the trees, loved watching the changing colors of the landscape, the hills going from green to brown to gray, then to green again. And where would I ever hear anything as beautiful as the Sisters singing at vespers?
“I’d read so many stories about people searching for faith, for a reason to live and I’ve found that right here,” continued Sister Anthony. “Every day I wake up and look out my window and I feel excited. I’ve never stopped asking: ‘What lies out there for me today?’”
She smiled at the children, full of warmth and tenderness. “I’ve found all of you here. It’s been such a wonderful thing for me to watch you learn and grow.”
She paused, remembering her story.
“I curled up in Tree’s shade that day, as I have so many times in my life, and as I was dropping off to sleep I remember saying to him, ‘How lucky I am to have you.’”
And then in a voice so quiet I almost missed it, I heard her say, “I suppose that will never change.”
After the children left, she turned to me and told me what I’d already guessed. “I’ve come to a decision,” she said, and vanished from the clearing, leaving me alone with Tree, feeling stunned and useless.
Chapter Seven
Saying Good-bye
Since that day I’d been dreading her call. So when it came I was surprised at how bright she sounded. Still, after I hung up the phone I felt dull inside, the way you feel when you first realize your parents can’t make your wishes come true, or keep the bad dreams at bay. Here it was, not even spring, and I had this year’s tree lined up, but somehow I didn’t feel like celebrating as I drove out to the convent.
It was one of those in-between days, not quite spring but no longer winter. The sun shone through the cold air, putting a much-needed sparkle on the brown and gray countryside and flocks of birds flew overhead, their calls sounding like an announcement of the warm weather ahead. I like that time of year, when the earth’s in a tug-of-war between old and new.
Sister Anthony met me at the convent and suggested we take a walk. I began to head toward the clearing, but she pointed me in another direction.
“I’ve already been to see Tree today,” she said simply. I had the feeling she didn’t want to see me around Tree. It was as if I was the messenger of doom.
Sister Anthony must have guessed how I was feeling, because she took special pains to be lively. We chatted about the spring Flower Show that was coming up, and she told me about a new rose hybrid she was experimenting with in her little greenhouse behind the convent.
We had walked quite a distance when she stopped by the edge of a little creek surrounded on all sides by trees and small hills. I had never been to this part of the property before.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” said Sister Anthony. “This is the heart of Brush Creek.”
We sat down together on a couple of large rocks whose flat surfaces had been nicely warmed by the sun.
“Tell me all about it,” she said.
I looked at her blankly.
“Tree’s journey,” she said. “I want to know exactly what lies in store for him. And no cutting corners. I want to know everything, good and bad.”
“Where do you want me to start?” I asked.
She thought for a minute.
“How will you get him there, to New York City?” she asked. “He’s very tall.”
I began to explain. I told her how the tree travels in a special trailer that’s like an accordion. It can stretch out up to 100 feet. They say it can hold a tree 125 feet tall, though I’ve never seen it. The tallest tree that ever stood at Rockefeller Center was ninety feet, and that was back in 1948.
“What kind of a tree was that?” Sister Anthony asked.
“I believe it was a Norway spruce,” I said.
“Hmmm,” she said, then added. “How tall do you think Tree is?”
“Why, Sister Anthony,” I said, laughing, “I think you’re being a little competitive!”
She looked sheepish and smiled. My heart lightened, even though I knew this must be hard for her.
She wanted to know more. I think she wanted to make sure we knew what we were doing. Tree was her main concern and she needed to feel she was putting him in good hands.
But there was more to it than that. She had a natural curiosity about how things worked. She was interested in the mechanics of it, just exactly how you move a giant tree from here to there and keep it in once piece.
Once again, I found Sister Anthony shedding new light on something that had become old hat to me long ago. As I told her about the process, it struck me how amazing it really was.
“It takes weeks to get the tree ready,” I said. “Then we get about twenty people and a giant hydraulic crane to help move the tree onto the trailer and then to put it up again at Rockefeller Center.”
I was gathering momentum. “It gets really exciting on the trip into the city,” I said. “The tree travels with a police escort at night, when traffic is light, like a president or a movie star, being whisked along in the biggest limousine in the world.”
Sister Anthony was laughing out loud. “My goodness,” she said. “You certainly make it sound thrilling.”
She tweaked me. “All this from the man who hates Christmas!”
I was starting to feel relieved. This hadn’t been painful at all.
Then she asked the one question I didn’t want to answer.
It was innocent enough.
“How will you keep the branches from breaking?” she asked. “It’s such a long way.”
My relief evaporated. This wasn’t going to be so easy after all.
“We, uh, truss the branches,” I said casually.
Her eyebrows went up.
“Truss?” she asked.
I took a breath. “We position the crane alongside the tree and someone climbs up and ties each branch, one by one.”
“One by one,” she repeated. “That must take a long time.”
I nodded. “It takes weeks.”
“How tight do you tie the branches?” she asked.
I pa
used. “Pretty tight,” I said.
She nodded.
I dreaded what was coming next.
“Do the branches ever break?” she asked.
Bingo! There was no avoiding it.
“Sometimes” I said. “Then we fix them.”
“You fix them?” she said.
“We ‘enhance’ them,” I said, and then immediately felt like kicking myself. “I mean, we add branches to replace the ones that get broken.”
I expected her to get upset, maybe decide to leave Tree where he was.
But I should have known better.
“I can see why you would do that,” she said slowly. “Something like fixing a broken arm.”
She paused for a long while, then said, “Tell me again what the tree looks like when it’s finished—all decorated and ready for show? I know I’ve heard you tell the children many times, but I want to hear it again.”
I tried to drum up every fact I’d ever heard about the Rockefeller Christmas tree. I told her about how more than 25,000 bulbs of different colors were strung around the tree on five miles of electrical wire, and about the care the electricians took to wrap each branch separately.
Then I stopped. “I forgot,” I said. “You’ve never seen the tree. This must not mean anything to you.”
She shook her head. “No, go on. I can imagine it very well.”
So I told her about the twelve angels, that Valerie Clarebout had sculpted for the Center’s Channel Gardens years before, and how when you look down the middle of them you see the Christmas tree in the distance, like a cheerful apparition.
And I told her about the star. It was made in 1949 out of a material called Bakelite, which gives off a soft white glow. “It looks like a miracle,” I said softly.
She took all of this in with a thoughtful look on her face, as if she were trying to conjure up the scene in her head. I offered to send her some photographs of Christmas trees from the past, but she didn’t want them. “I think I understand now,” was all she had to say about it.
The Christmas Tree Page 5