Making Christmas Wreaths

Photo for illustration only. This is not my sister and me.

Each November Dad set up a worktable next to the oil-fired furnace in our basement. There,after supper on nights that he didn’t have to work somewhere else, he made Christmas wreaths to be sold to raise money for our Church. Setting up a wooden clamp to hold metal wreath rings, he would secure small bundles of greens with florist wire wound round and round until you couldn’t see the ring at all. He used pretty hollies with red berries, sweet-smelling cedar and some pine with long needles, but the evergreen used the most was pastel green princess pine.

Sister Lynne and I were too young to weave the festive wreathes, but Mom told us we had to help by gathering the natural materials in the woods behind our back cornfield, next to the Purchade Cemetery. After all, it was a family activity.

“Bobby, I need you and Lynne to help your dad. He is working too much to be able to do everything himself. I’ll ask him to show you where to gather the princess pine.”

So, one morning before heading off to work, he took us out to the pine grove. It was just after Thanksgiving. Sere oak and beech leaves still fluttered in the slightest breeze among the crowded evergreens.

He handed us two empty burlap bags; the same ones used back in July to carry bushels of corn out of the back field. Sharp ends of ears had made punctures in the cloth. He showed us how to spread two corners of the bags wide enough to tuck, then tie, around our belts. This left a small space just below our bellies wide enough to fit the sprigs of evergreen.

We three walked the tractor path past our shingled leaning barn, then through stubbly corn

fields behind the long greenhouse, and into the edge of a grove of very tall pines. Some trees, blown down by Hurricane Carol two months before, lay across our path. Dad ducked down to bring his head below the giant trunks as we passed deeper into the grove. We were both so short that we passed without bending.

Dad had done this gathering job before. He knew the sunny places among the trees where patches of low evergreen ground covers grew in the warmed forest duff. Lynne and I often wandered in those places during the heat of summer, when we sought forest coolness. We never knew the value of plants on which we walked barefoot.

At first, I wasn’t sure how to differentiate between sprigs of periwinkle, tiny white pine sprouts and pale green princess pine. Dad quickly showed us how to pull each of the plants he wanted, roots and all, without breaking or bending them. These were then carefully slid into the slots of the burlap bundled at our waists. It seemed like a very easy job.

He left us then to go to work at one of the several part time jobs he had taken to make ends meet. There was work as a special cop at a construction site downtown. He might also have

been going to the Bridgewater State Farm where he worked as Head Gardener. After he left, we continued to pull princess pine plants from that one spot until there were no more left.

Venturing on to another sunny open space where there were many more.

“Won’t Dad be happy that we have found so much?” said Lynne.

I grunted as I reached down repeatedly. My back was getting tired. She didn’t seem to have the same problem.

“Look at my bag, Lynnie. It is so much fuller than yours is.”

We both continued to fill our bags until the sunlight began to fade.

“Bobby, let’s go home. If it gets dark, I’m not sure we will find the way.”

I laughed out loud and kept on pulling. She was right, but I couldn’t let her know I shared her concern. When she started to head back without me, I followed. I didn’t want to be left alone. Soon we had made it past the fallen pines and into the field where the sun still was bright. Now the weight of the full bags, hanging from our waists and dragging across the corn stubble wore us out. This easy job had become hard work just like most of the jobs we were always given.

Back at the house we dropped the bags at the cellar door, climbed up the steep steps to the kitchen door and called out to Mom that we were done.

“Thank you so much,” she said coming out the door. “Dad will be so pleased with all the princess pine that you have found. Now he will be able to make those wreaths to sell at the fair next week. You are such good children.”

After work that night and for each of the next few nights, Dad stood at the plywood work table with bright work lights glaring down from the ceiling. He wove the evergreen sprigs around the circular frames. Smoke from Pall Mall cigarettes swirled around the room stirred by hot air from the furnace.

I marveled at how quickly he was able to turn each wire frame into a beautiful, tight wreath.

They were beautiful. Occasionally a small branch of bright red holly berries or a pinecone might be placed in the mix. At the end he would stick on a lovely red bow taken from a box on the table.

When the job was done, two tall stacks of his works of art stood on the table. These were sprinkled with water to clean and freshen them, then carefully placed in the burlap bags. Each had a price tag attached: “$2.50” was the price.

Although I can’t remember Dad ever saying “Thank you” to us for the work we did, he must have been very grateful in a tired sort of way. Perhaps his thanks were shown by the gifts that showed up on our tree Christmas morning.