The Angel Hair Tree

This week's column is one of Peggy's favorite Christmas columns, and first appeared many years ago.

It was Christmas in rural Indiana.

My children were excited as Christmas day drew near. My three-year-old son wanted a red riding tractor. My seven-year-old daughter wanted a ballerina doll with a pink tutu.

We were a long way from our family and the place we called home in Missouri. But this holiday there was no extra money for a trip back home. Nor could my husband get leave from his Air Force job as a crew member on a KC-135 air refueling plane.

There wasn't a lot of money for luxuries, certainly not for a fancy store-bought tree. So we tried to make the best of it.

Unaccustomed to the severe Indiana winters, we huddled in front of our old livingroom fireplace. Our two-bedroom rented cottage was surrounded by woodlands in a sparsely populated area. It was the only available housing we could find when my husband was transferred to Indiana.

In wintertime a narrow creek that ran behind the cottage would freeze over and the neighborhood children would glide their snow sleds across its smooth hard surface

That Christmas when I told the children that daddy was going to go beyond the creek into the woods to look for our Christmas tree, they could hardly wait.

It was fiercely cold as my husband bundled up in his hooded parka and insulated boots and trudged out in a heavy snow.

The children watched from a window as their daddy disappeared into the woods. After a long time, he returned with a scrubby tree thrown over one shoulder.

"Best I could do," he said, shaking snow from his parka and stomping his boots.

He stood the tree up for my inspection.

I hid my disappointment and told him the tree would do. Maybe the decorations, meager as they are, will fill the gaps," I thought.

"It looks fine," I assured my husband. It was too bitter cold to search for another one anyway.

The children held hands and danced, thrilled at the prospects of helping decorate the tree after supper.

My daughter hung each silver icicle, strand by stand, while my son hung a few shiny ornaments on the lowest branches. I added a single strand of sparkling garland and the only string of lights we had.

Then we stepped back to inspect our handiwork.

It certainly looked some better but not like the eight-foot wonders I had seen for sale in town. Our scrawny tree was definitely lacking.

As I searched in a cardboard box that held a few remaining Christmas ornaments, I found a small box of angel hair, left unopened from the previous year.

Maybe the fine glass fibers would fill in the empty spaces where branches should have been, but were missing.

Soon the little tree was encased in a shimmery silken cloud.

That done, I placed the star on the tree top. There was nothing more I could do.

I told the children to sit on the floor in front of the tree and I would show them something magical.

They sat down cross-legged on the rug, hands folded, and waited.

I switched off the overhead lights and plugged in the strand of tree lights.

When the angel hair caught the light from the multicolored bulbs, a mystical transformation took place. Spiraling translucent gossamer webs created a fairyland.

"Mama," my daughter whispered in awe," look at the beautiful spider webs."

"Do you really like it?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, mama, it's so beautiful."

They clapped their hands at the miracle before them.

Last Christmas while I decorated the white artificial tree in my Arkansas home, my thoughts returned to that long ago Christmas in rural Indiana.

I remembered, too, something my now-grown daughter said after she spent hours decorating a magnificent live tree that touched the ceiling in her home.

"Mom" she said, "do you remember that little tree we had in Indiana by the creek, the one with the spider webs?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well," she said, "that wasn't the prettiest tree we ever had, but I really loved it. Somehow, it was special."