Part 2 of 2

My dad spent much of his childhood in Hendersonville, NC where a number of his relatives still reside.  He does not see them as often as he would like, but he will be there every year around this time, no matter what.  Mr. and Mrs. John R. Hollingsworth are buried in a cemetery on Hwy 64 leading out of Hendersonville towards Brevard.  Every year at Christmas my family loads up the Lincoln Town Car and treks north toward Hendersonville with two goals in mind.  Number one: we place a Christmas wreath on the graves of my late grandparents.  I never knew my dad's parents, but I enjoy visiting the cemetery and allowing my dad the opportunity to reminisce.  After that is said and done, we make our way to the Carl Sandburg National Historic Site.  My mom's dream is to have the ultimate family experience...and by "ultimate family experience" I mean live on a mountain in southern Virginia with her entire extended family including three sons named John Boy, Jim Bob, and Shemp, or whatever their names were.  In short, she never misses an opportunity to fashion together a "memory", as she likes to call them.  She is giddy for a week leading up to the Christmas trip to the Carl Sandburg home.  Once there, we (grown adults) pile out of the car and are each handed a zip-lock sandwich bag containing bird seed and several red ribbons.  My mom is smiling from ear to ear.  This is her moment.  With our collective pride left in the car, my dad, my two brothers, and myself (again, grown adults) step onto the nature trail leading into the forest.  Our goal: to find a little Christmas tree, decorate it with the aforementioned ribbons, and scatter the bird seed on the ground.  We all (excluding my mom) try to find a tree off the trail.  Way off the trail.  This way no passersby will spot us.  Once the lucky tree is located, we all survey the surrounding area to make certain that we're alone.  Then we begin, decorating as quickly as possible to avoid ridicule of any strangers who may see us. 

Everyone is out of ribbons.  Bird seed is scattered.  Then it happens.  (Let me state for the record: I'm NOT making this up.  I don't think anyone could make this up.)  My mom begins to sing.  Every year.  She sings We Wish You a Merry Christmas.  To whom is she singing you may be wondering?  To us?  No.  Christmas caroling to the other people who may be passing by?  Nope.  She is singing to the little forest animals who are hiding nearby watching us decorate.  Usually my brothers or even my dad try to hurry everyone along after the seed is scattered because we all know what is about to happen.  But it never fails.  Not once since we were little boys.  My brothers and I look at each other and then back at the ground.  Is this really happening? 

This is our tradition.  Our memory.  I wouldn't miss it for the world...unless of course I'm on the other side of the world.  Like I said: maybe, just maybe, Jessica lucked out this year.  But I love to remind her that she can't avoid it forever.  There's always next year.