We picked a spot near the back of the house, between it and the adjacent house, and planted the tree. It was so tiny, that my husband put a stake next to it, so that he wouldn't forget about it and mow it down when he cut the lawn.
In 1991 we had an ice storm. All of the tree branches were weighed down with a heavy coating of ice resulting in many limbs snapping off. By this time, the little evergreen was just a bit taller than our four-year-old son. He stared out the window at the drooping branches of the forlorn looking little tree. "I have to go out and help that tree," he declared.
He bundled up in jacket and boots and crunched through the ice to the tree. Carefully, gently, he reached up to the top of the tree and shook it, loosening the coat of ice. As the chunks and fragments fell to the ground, the branches of the tree popped back up into normal position.
In the late 90s, my mother had a stroke and was bed-ridden in our dining room. After her passing, my Dad lived with us in that room. During those years, the evergreen was right outside their window and a perfect height to be a Christmas tree. I strung it with lights and ran an extension cord through the nearest basement window, so that they could look out on some holiday cheer.
My parents are gone. My son is married and lives across the country. The tree soars upward. If I want to see the top of it now, I have to climb two flights of stairs and look out the window on the third floor of our old Victorian home.
We are moving this summer and will sell our house. Someone else may enjoy the tree, but not as much as I have.
