Christmas Tree Farm

Song: Christmas Tree Farm by Taylor Swift

To me, this song is about people. Christmas isn’t all about the presents, but about the people, and the people are why we give presents.

Dec 24, 1890

Oranlay, New South Wales, Australia

“‘'Twas the night before…Christmas, when all through the house, not a…um…creature was…stirring, not even a mouse.’” Trailing his finger beneath the words, Reuben stopped for a moment to allow Jeremy to examine the picture. “Ya done?”

Jeremy nodded, enthralled by the drawing of trees lurking in the moonlight in front of a house. He and Jeremy had only ever read a couple of picture books in their five and four year lives, and every drawing was something to be admired.

The buggy bounced up a rock in the road, jolting the book out of Reuben’s hands, its pages spreading over the floor. Mother turned around from the buggy’s front seat. “Careful, now. Hold the book real tight. Grandma and Grandpa won’t send you another one.”

“We will.” Reuben picked the book up again and continued to read. “‘The stockings were hung by the chim…ney with care, in hopes that St.…Nich…o…las soon would be there.’” He turned the page. “‘The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.’”

Sugar-plums? Reuben had never heard of such a thing. Is that what other children got for Christmas?

He didn’t get much for Christmas. His grandparents in Scotland had sent him and Jeremy the picture book and a few wooden animals. Now, their parents were driving them into town to join everyone Christmas shopping. That’s what everyone else did. All of the other children were allowed to pick out presents for Christmas day. Except for them.

“‘And mamma in her’…I reckon it says….‘’kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled down for a long winter’s nap, when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.’”

Jeremy smacked his grubby hand on the page. “Winter? Those people were lucky. It’s summer here, an’ it’s too hot.”

“Don’t touch the book, Jer’my. Ya gotta be careful. The next page says, ‘Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the…breast of the new-fallen snow—‘”

“Snow!” Jeremy tapped the picture again. “I wanna see snow! I don’t like Christmas here, Reuben. I wanna see snow.”

“Me too. Let’s keep readin’. It says, ‘gave the…lus…tre of mid-day to objects below, when, what to my…wond…er…ing eyes should appear, but a mini…a…ture sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.’ See the reindeer, Jer’my? I reckon they’re kinda like horses. ‘With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.’”

“We’re in town, boys. Put the book down. There’s time to read it later. Come, now.” Father assisted Mother down the buggy, her skirts sticking to her side in summer sweat.

“But we wanna read!” Jeremy protested.

“There’ll be time later. Don’t ya wanna look at the Christmas displays?”

Reuben shook his head. The gingerbreads and chocolates and nutcracker toys were all wonderful, but he never got any of them. Other children did—the children that lived in the big houses in town. Children that lived on farms outside of town never got anything.

“Boys, come now, we’ll…oh look! Is that Mista Kensington over there? Sittin’ on the front steps of the mercantile. It looks like he’s readin’ the book you were readin’. Why don’t you join the other children?”

That was a better idea. He scampered over to the mercantile, Jeremy in tow. Mr Kensington had a good reading voice. He squeezed his way through the crowd of open-mouthed children so he could see the pictures better.

“‘As I drew in my head and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.’”

Jeremy flung his hand into the air like he was in school, except he didn’t wait for Mr Kensington to call on him. “I ‘member when the peddler came to town! He had lotsa toys an’ books!”

“He did, didn’t he? Just like St. Nicholas.”

They read about St. Nicholas’ twinkling eyes, his rosy cheeks, his little mouth and his fluffy white beard. All too soon, it was time for St. Nicholas to go away.

“‘He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, and laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle, But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”’” Mr Kensington closed the book. “Alright, children, it’s time to go back to your parents now. Can you see them?”

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night. The words echoed in Reuben’s head as he plodded back to his parents. The little picture on the last page was of a perfect Christmas tree, shiny decorations, and pile of toys underneath. Is that what a happy Christmas was?

If Mr Clement Moore was right, Reuben wouldn’t have a very happy Christmas. No Christmas tree, no shiny decorations, not even a toy—just a reading from the Bible and an extra long church service. Not even turkey and pudding for Christmas morning. He had been good all year, and he knew he still wouldn’t get any special gifts. That’s what had happened last year.

Mother and Father spent far too long talking to friends, and never even looked in the shop windows. Maybe they knew they wouldn’t buy anything, as always, so they didn’t bother looking.

“Mummy, is it time to go now?” Jeremy tugged her arm, his eyes watery and beseeching, his lips quivering even in the heat. “We gotta go home an’ clear out all the soot in the chimney so St. Nicholas can get down. If we don’t hurry, it’ll be too late!”

Jeremy didn’t understand.

Mother touched his shoulder. “Jeremy, sweetheart, we…well…that story isn’t quite…true.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened to fit more tears in. “We don’t have presents an’ toys? We don’t have Christmas?”

“Of course we have Christmas! Christmas isn’t about the presents an’ the toys or even the food. It sure would be nice to have all of those things, ‘specially snow. But if we have this perfect little picture of what Christmas is like in our heads, with snow an’ sleigh rides an’ presents, we’ll never really be happy. When ya think ‘bout Christmas, instead of thinking about all the stories in the books, why don’t ya think ‘bout what Christmas really means?”

“What does Christmas mean?” Jeremy inquired.

“Well, we read the story every year. But it’s more ‘an that. I reckon it’s ‘bout bein’ thankful for what we have, an’ doin’ our best to live good lives, an’ bein’ with our family.”

Jeremy stuck his lower lip out. “That sounds boring.”

“Well, perhaps it is, when ya just read that book. But Christmas is ‘bout people.”

Christmas was about people? Reuben thought about that for a moment. A long moment. It sure was! Last Christmas, there had been a big dinner for everyone in Oranlay, and then they had played cricket. That had been fun. There had been a long table of delicious puddings to choose from, he remembered. But he didn’t remember that as well as the people—their laughter, their smiles, their jokes, their love.

Christmas was for everyone. Not just the people that lived in the two-storey white homes. Christmas was also for the people who lived in one-room dirt homes. It wasn’t fair—but Christmas didn’t need to be fair. Christmas just needed people.

The people made Christmas. Not money. Not presents. Not even snow. It was the people.

Reuben nodded. That made sense. The book was wrong, then.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town, the people came together, and Christmas was found.