Living Myths

Oh, the myths of childhood. What great places in which to live.

Last night I sat in our house lit only by tiny lights on our Christmas tree. It doesn’t seem to mind its size. Being small is not necessarily a bad thing. It occupies a prominent place atop a table by the window. From the street it appears much larger than it is, making it illusory. It prefers this.

There are advantages to small trees. I speak from experience. Aside from not being the subject of constant expletives, they receive ample love and constant accolades. “Oh, how beautiful. This is our prettiest tree ever!” It smiles.

Our home has 24 foot ceilings. Small trees appear dwarfish in it. We used to erect only 14 foot trees. These are trees that lumberjacks harvest from Santa’s private forest and are hauled in on flatbed trucks. They require about fifty people and three months to set up. I exaggerate only slightly. Guess who puts the lights and ornaments atop these giant redwoods? Right. Me. Age and tall ladders are bad combinations for frail and aged men. We now opt for smaller trees. They’re cheaper and we avoid visits to the emergency room.

Tall trees make Christmas a very large event for children. Picture one of your own. On Christmas Eve, shopping and wrapping are complete. Gifts lie in prodigious quantities beneath the mammoth redwood. Children circle it, crawl underneath, rattle boxes and often fall asleep. Dogs ravage all packages smelling of sausages.

Our son never seemed enamored by the tree and its treasures. At least not empirically. But we knew his dirty tricks, so we waited in the dark to observe his midnight capers. He rummaged under the tree, unwrapping gifts, and then re-wrapping them like nothing ever happened. We allowed him this intrusion into Santa’s gift bag. Even to this day he has the same curiosity and the same dirty tricks.

I sat absorbing whatever thoughts the tree suggested. I reflected on the myths we propagate. Remember the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Did you ever find it? And Santa Claus? What a tragedy to find out he’s just a tired, old imposter who outsources his work to tired, old parents. I discovered this early on because our house didn’t have a chimney. Plus, my father was quite noisy doing Santa-work, possibly due to swilling eggnog before setting the loot out. Of course, I never publicly admitted to this knowledge, lest the booty cease.

I walked to the window, looked at the stars, remembering, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight; wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” Another childhood nursery rhyme detonated to bits and pieces? I hope not. Without stars, why dream?

In the western horizon the new moon slips down its circuit for other eyes to see and wonder. On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong exploded the moon myths when he declared unequivocally that it’s not cheese and there’s no man in the moon. Since that time the moon is responsible for lower birth rates in America. Coupled with the demise of drive-in theaters, it fails to produce the same magical effects it once did in the back seat of cars in the days of my youth. Some myths die hard!

I returned for a last glance at the small tree. “Lights out,” I said. It smiled.

I know talking to trees is a primal sign of having ‘lost it.’ But then again, as I see it, all legends have their myths…and thank God, small children keep them alive.


Bud Hearn
December 9, 2010