Mom, Grammy McIntyre and I were on our way to visit my Great Aunt May. It was a bitter, brown and gray November day; one of many days that waited patiently for the cleanse of pure white snow, platinum frost and the glory of Christmas. We had driven to Blaine and turned onto a side street, our snow tires whistling softly on the bare asphalt. “I wonder when it will snow?” my grandmother asked.
“Whenever it snows, it will be too soon,” my mom said. We laughed and I pressed my nose against the car window, watching my breath chisel through the icy film on the glass. As my mom’s car turned into Aunt May’s dooryard, I caught a foggy glimpse of a tiny, tar-papered house that sat just across the street from Aunt May’s house. Four square windows were lined crookedly across the front of the house, with two slightly larger windows just above them. The windows had no visible curtains or valance; they were simply encased in white metal and they were in stark contrast to the deep, pitch black tar paper that surrounded them. The only visible door was on the left side of the house and it was made from dark wood that was streaked with age and neglect. Two weak and lopsided steps led to a broken stoop that seemingly reached out to the door but the effort was unsuccessful, as there was a huge space between the two.
The yard was littered with old cars, transmissions, abandoned lawnmowers, and scraps of wood. In the drive sat an ancient dark green pickup, its driver’s side wheel supported by two blocks of wood and a prayer. And there, in the bed of that old truck, lay the most magnificent pine tree that I, to this very day, have ever seen. The freshly cut trunk pushed way past the length of the pickup and the healthy, elaborate boughs spilled out over the pickup’s wooden sides. I pulled on my mom’s coat sleeve as we climbed out of the car to greet Aunt May. “Mom, how will those people find a place for that tree? It is so big and the house is so small!” My question was soon to be answered.
Mom and Dad and I loved to ride around and look at Christmas light displays and on this particular night, we found ourselves driving out of Caribou and past Presque Isle. In no time we were in Blaine. My father turned to me and said, “Keep your eyes peeled, Bin. Let’s see what became of that tree you have been talking about.” Suddenly, there it was! Even the stars in the sky stepped aside in honor of that glorious tree. It stood just behind the little house, lights consuming it from the very top of the perfect peak to the end of the massive trunk. The house itself was saturated with lights and window displays that were enhanced by the two floodlights on the lawn. The black tar paper shimmered with the reflection of green, red, blue, pink, orange, and lavender jewels of light and the sorry old wooden door clung to the three wreaths that adorned its surface. Each piece of abandoned equipment on the lawn was draped with strings of clear light and tinsel; transformed into decorated gift boxes that reached toward the glowing tree and the heavens above.
Mom turned around and took my hand, enthralled with her daughter’s obvious delight. “What do you think, Bin? Do you think they found a place for the tree?”
The car was warm with love. I squeezed my mom’s strong hand, cherishing the moment and promising myself to hold on to that memory for the rest of my life.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
