The day after thanksgiving the President and the 1st Lady arranged for the White House Christmas tree to be delivered to the historic home by horse-drawn carriage from a backwoods farm in Shepperdstown (West Virginia) where it once once graced the country landscape with outstretched limbs.
The Obama's were the proud recipients of a towering 18 1/2 foot fir (a staggering twelve feet wide) which was promptly hoisted into a prominent place of honor in the oval-shaped blue room on the state floor of the White House.
The traditional tree, planted in 1996, was hand-picked by the Chief Usher (Admiral Stephen Rochon).
In a festive setting - amidst a lot of camaraderie (fueled by a jug or two of eggnog and hot-buttered rum?) - White House staff gathered to decorate the majestic offering from mother nature's generous bounty.
The whole heart-warming story triggered memories of my own childhood at the yuletide season.
When I was just about four or five, for instance, I recall flying down the stairs at the crack of dawn ever-hopeful that during the night when I was deep in slumber a tree had magically been erected with the help of one of Santa's thoughtful helpers.
But, each morning, a tinge of sadness flooded over me.
No tree!
On Christmas eve, I half-expected that Santa Clause was going to pass our house by; after all, at that juncture there wasn't any surefire sign that the joy of the Christmas season (especially a dazzling tree with all the trimmings) would ever descend on our humble home on Old Weston Road (just shy of historic Indian trail).
Had I been a bad boy?
That night, shortly after I was tucked in my bed and the lights were turned out, a few tears filled my wide sad eyes before I dropped off into dreamland.
Curiously, I slept in the next day.
In fact, while I was deep in slumber, I could hear my name being called far away in the distance somewhere.
Suddenly, I came to a start.
I bolted up in bed after I realized that one of my older brothers was shouting out my name and coaxing me to come downstairs to the living-room right away.
So, I slipped out of bed and slowly crept down the stairwell in my superhero pajamas expecting the worst!
Suddenly, I spied a beautiful Christmas tree - decorated from top to bottom with pretty twinkling lights, candy canes, and eye-catching doo-dads - which sent out a thousand rainbows this way 'n that when they caught the light.
And, beneath the lovely tree, there were a dozen or so inviting gift-wrapped packages beckoning me!
My heart lept out of my chest as I dashed down the last stair or two and dove under the tree in search of one of the little gems with my own name on it.
Of course, in retrospect, the curious scenario which unfolded that week makes sense to me now.
When you grow up and become an adult you are often forced to face the truth.
Mother was trying to survive on a small budget - and, of course - there were many mouths to feed.
When my father (rest his soul) passed to spirit at a relatively young age - and she was forced to fend for herself and her little posse of kids - it must have been a difficult path for a poor uneducated woman to have to journey down alone.
Like any normal loving parent - my mother wanted her children to experience the joys of christmas, too - in spite of the fact it may be a struggle to achieve.
Looking back, I realize the strain certainly took its toll.
For this reason - the tree was purchased for a song late Christmas eve - from a vendor on the verge of calling it a day before my anxious mother and older brother happened along in the freezing night air.
Ida was a good woman and it must have broken her heart to have been burdened so.
I'll always remember the last time I visited my mother (who I was separated from at the age of 7).
I was all of 18 and on my way to New York City to pursue an acting career on the stage.
Shortly after I spirited her out of the nursing home to treat her to an ale at a pub down the street (on the sly at her request) she teared up and expressed her sorrow at not being able to help me financially with my trip.
It's one of those memories that will always remain fresh in my mind and close to my heart.
Over the years, there have been many joyous Christmases and a handful of blue ones, too.
Those most fondly recalled are the ones I spent with a lover, or a best friend, even a stranger on occasion who sauntered into my life unexpectedly - and like me - pined for some company on a holiday that is often a very sad one for those who have lost loved ones, have no family, or outlived their friends.
Each year I make it a point to give to a charity with that in mind (hopeful that an anonymous giving hand may bring a little comfort and joy into someone's life during the Yuletide season).
And, I trust that you will be moved by the invisible hand of God to do the same.
Happy Holidays, eh?
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