Cat Evolution in Christmas Tree

  If I could have my druthers, I would wish that the first Christmas of my memory had not been such a shambles. But, what could you expect of a cat named Evolution?

  It all started a week before Christmas. “Loye (the fellers called him Bill) let’s have an old-fashion Christmas tree this year,” said Mother in that meaningfully casual way of a woman who has Made Up Her Mind.

  Dad squeezed his eyes shut in that hopelessly protesting way of men who are Resigned To The Inevitable. “Ooooo Kaaaay.”       

He was less than enthusiastic because “old fashion” at that time and place in Missouri meant a holly tree you cut for yourself out in the woods. Classic balsam trees imported from Michigan cost four bits or more.

  Mother smiled gratefully, patting Dad’s cheek. “Christmas comes but once a year.”

  In due time, Dad and I located a six-foot red-berried beauty. Its lowest branches, close to the ground, were about three feet in length. Dad’s arm and hatchet were inches shorter – requiring him to edge into the thicket to chip the base.

  Thus, with every stroke of a dull blade, Dad suffered scratches and punctures from the sharp-spined holly leaves. The felling process took considerable time inasmuch as Dad paused frequently to ease his wounds.

I used the delays to memorize new words father had invented spontaneously.  Several -- repeated by me days later -- introduced me to the quaint custom of getting one’s mouth washed out with soap.

  By suppertime, Dad had recovered a modicum of cheerfulness. We began decorating the holly tree – very, very carefully. 

  Mother had saved the tinfoil off Eskimo Pies and Hershey bars for several months. (You see! She had been hatching her plan for a long time.) Now, she cut the foil into strips for “icicles” -- a natural phenomenon unknown in Boot Heel, Mo.

  Dad made corn-shuck angels to hang on the branches, and corn-cob reindeer with match-stick legs. Bolls of unpicked cotton, hung on with hairpins, made beautiful “snow balls.”

  I made a long chain of colored paper strips, each link forged with flour-and-water paste.

  All of us helped clip little tin holders with candles to the ends of tree branches. It was slow going because of the stickery holly leaves.

  Finally Dad hoisted me on his shoulders so I could plant on top of the tree a cardboard star resplendent with Hershey foil.

  Christmas Eve night, Mother and Dad lit the candles and turned out the room lights. A dozen tiny flames bathed the tree in a golden haze. Magical!

  No one spoke for a while. Only when the candles had burned down dangerously low did Mother sigh, hug her men folk and blow out the candles.“Time for bed,” she announced. “Christmas comes but once a year.”

  I hated to give up the magic moment, but Dad had the persuader: “Santa won’t come while you’re awake.”

There was a brief reprieve while we decided what refreshment to leave Santa on a table by the front door  -- an approved alternative in homes without fireplaces.

  Mother and I voted for Dr. Pepper and cookies, prevailing over Dad’s proposal of homebrew and cracklin. His was a snack of Prohibition beer and baked bacon rinds. “If you get coal in your stocking, don’t blame me,” he admonished. “Where do you think Santa got that red nose and beer belly?”

  As I drifted off to sleep, I worried that our choice of midnight fare might be too tame. Maybe I ought to get up and ----- zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Much later, and darker, we were awakened by anguished yowls of our cat. I’ve met a lot of tom-fool cats in my day, but never one as accident-prone as Evolution. He had one eye, a ragged ear and a bent tail crafted by an encounter unknown.

  This time, he was in a real pickle.

  We stumbled to the living room, blinking as lights were turned on. Evolution had climbed into the holly tree and was unable to move without further impalement on the sharp leaves.

  Dad reached in with hands still scabbed from his tree- procurement expedition. Evolution yowled louder. “Come here you little bag of fleas,” Dad coaxed sweetly, but without conviction.

  Mother tried to press apart the branches with a broom, but every movement elicited louder cries of feline pain. “Do something, Loye!” Mother pleaded.

  “Bring me my shotgun,” Dad replied testily, “and I’ll solve this situation with one shot!”

  I saw that the situation was deteriorating rapidly and needed New Thinking. Our dog, Mac, slept on the front porch and always seemed able to motivate Evolution. I opened the door and invited him to join us.

  Mac sized up the situation right off. He stiff-leged to the source of our concern with a growl three octaves below middle C. “Growf,” he barked for openers.

 “Growf, growf,” he repeated -- thrusting his muzzle forward and treating Evolution to a clear view of a full set of canine molars.

  Evolution was impressed. With a screech he   leaped from the bed of thorns, toppling the tree of needles onto Dad.

He had some new language with which to proclaim his displeasure.  However, I couldn’t concentrate on adding them to my growing vocabulary – what with Mother’s screaming, Evolution’s yowling and Mac’s barking.

  For several minutes the room was a whirl of people, animals, presents, tree and furniture, as Evolution and Mac played catch-me-if-you-can.

  Bye and bye, Evolution escaped through the front door -- Mac in hot pursuit. The room looked as if it had been stirred with a stick.

  Mother laughed first. I followed suit as soon as I was sure it was approved procedure. Father responded more slowly – yet he allowed as how it might be regarded SOMEDAY as less than tragic.

“We might as well see what Santa brought us,” Dad said, squeezing his eyes shut and reaching for a package.  “Christmas comes but once a year.”

By Lindsey Wilger Williams, retired newspaper publisher and syndicated columnist