A “Wetherelves’ Nollaig Sguelachdan” Christmas memory by John Witherspoon.
How can a little white dog and a bedroom full of flies start something like this? Well, like the phrase in quotes above, it’s complicated and mysterious.
Witherspoon is supposed to be a Scot name so I threw a few words together from the old country. I am sure you can guess the Gaelic words in the phrase, if not pronounce them. How anyone can pronounce them is beyond me just as how our “Nollaig Sguelachdan” has lasted these many years.
According to Webster, a tradition is a custom or belief that is passed from one generation to another. This family has been doing two things at Christmas for many years, though just how many is subject to debate. Now, going to the mountains for a Christmas tree is not unusual, but doing so as a three-generation family group for more than 20 years is. Meanwhile, the second generation, now with its accomplice third generation, entertains or harasses, depending on one’s interpretation, the first generation with various surprise activities on Christmas Eve, Day or Night. For convenience, we will refer to these activities as “entertainment” or “the entertainment thing” for I have long despaired of finding adequate or accurate words to describe what goes on.
My memory of the origin of the entertainment tradition conflicts with that of others. That’s a sure sign that this entertainment thing really is a tradition. Traditions are usually not intentional creations. There are no careful records kept. Only when people suddenly realize that they have been doing something repeatedly over the years is a tradition recognized. By then, it is fully mature and its birth dimly perceived through the fog of differing memories. Even a memory as sharp as my own.
My version of events conflicts with that of the four others who claim to have been there when it started. These four people have colluded in true Trumpian manner to concoct a history that is an alternate truth for the real story. Both versions involve little white dogs, but different ones.
As I have it, it is Toro, the Maltese, with huge oak leaves pinned to his head to resemble reindeer antlers thrown on our bed one Christmas morning to hasten our getting up and to the business of opening presents. Considering the dog involved, that would mean that the perpetrators were daughters 1 and 2. With the co-conspirators’ version, we have the Westie Mac and all three daughters dyeing him red and green and doing the same thing for the purpose of keeping the Santa thing going. When you first discover the real Santa, you soon realize that you don’t want to lose him. Just the same as my recent feelings about Bill Cosby and Garrison Keillor.
Believe the version you wish but whatever the truth, what has evolved has gotten more elaborate and taken on different forms without a miss for a couple of decades.
The “entertainment” soon morphed from getting June and me up to forcing us to stay in bed until the co-conspirators’ production was ready. Once, they modified the house into a spider’s nest with a web of strings that we were supposed to navigate to various prizes. On another Christmas, we were entertained while in bed by the second and third generations dancing to Swan Lake in outrageous costumes. A frequent theme of the entertainment was flamingos. Sometimes they appeared as a flock in the back yard and once a larger-than-life pink flamingo sat nesting on our roof, while its mate roamed the front yard. On another occasion, a flamingo, assuming the role of the proverbial stork, carried in its diaper not a newborn but videotape of how the Grinch prevented various family members from being present.
Twice we have been “kidnapped” on Christmas Eve. The first time we were decked out in homemade elf costumes and put in the back of our future son-in-law’s pickup, which was filled with hay and contained a stereo with Bing and Nat singing our kind of carols. We were driven about Greensboro, hailing amused citizenry with greetings of the season and visiting friends who were “Witherelved” in an unpretentious but original ceremony.
The second kidnapping was our first Christmas in Concord, when our “dumb” blonde youngest daughter couldn’t find the parking lot near a local church and settled instead on a spot a First Lutheran in Greensboro, which had been our church for more than 20 years. As we left the service that night the three daughters and two sons-in-law were at the door to the narthex, garbed in white sweatshirts with the word “Witherelve” spelled out in Christmas symbols and accented by small colored blinking lights. They were passing out Christmas candy to the bemused congregation.
Since moving to Wadesboro, we have been sent on a hunt for bells through the town, played reindeer games, learned about tops and wind-up toys and had a Charlie Brown Christmas. One year, we were invaded by gingerbread people including some 4-foot-tall cavorting in our yard. And we’ve learned about peace, been elved and had our halls decked with more than just holly.
Friends know about these goings on and many ask what our kids did this Christmas. Like us, they lack a descriptive name for it, but we know what they’re asking. They also express wonder about how long this has been going on. So do June and I.
The annual search for the perfect Christmas trees was instigated by Sue and Martin Hatcher and a bedroom full of flies. The Hatchers were about to build a mountain home at High Meadows and invited us to visit the site and, by the way, help cut down some unwanted trees on their property. Subsequent visits to the site and the new mountain home led us to the Motsinger tree farm and the perfect Christmas tree, the Fraser Fir. Prior to that first Fraser Fir, we had used White and Scotch pines. Nice trees to be sure, but a challenge to decorate and not quite my image of what a Christmas tree should look like.
Oh yes, the flies, I almost forgot. The room full of flies happened when we first went to High Meadows to see the Hatchers’ future mountain home site. We stayed overnight in a nearby house belonging to a friend of the Hatchers. The house had been closed for the winter and the weather had been cold and snowy. The Hatchers gave us the master bedroom on the top floor of the A frame and retired to a bedroom below. Our bedroom started warming up, accompanied by a couple of large flies buzzing around. I began hunting them down with some luck only to find that for every one eliminated, two more appeared. June joined in on the battle as I was being overrun. The war on flies was noisy and aroused the curiosity and imagination of our hosts below until Sue couldn’t stand it and called up the stairs to see if we were alright. The Hatchers soon joined the battle.
So, the Fraser Fir became the tree of choice and Motsinger’s the place to get one. One of the attractions of going to the mountains to get the tree was that not many did so at that time. In other words, this activity made us somewhat unique or different.
Also unique was Mr. Motsinger, himself. He was a senior citizen when we first went to his tree farm. His trees were beautiful, his business practices were … well, let’s just say interesting. His instructions were simple, “Find the tree you want, cut it from the bottom, drag it down the hill to me and I’ll price it.” Measuring poles, helpers with chainsaws, price lists and tractors to carry your tree to your car were not part of the Motsinger business plan.
He measured your tree by placing his hand on the top of his forehead and extending it toward the top of the tree you had dragged over to him. Apparently, he could determine the angle that the hand traveled and thus was able to calculate the height of the tree. Of course, if you approached him with your tree from downhill you got a better deal. The reverse was true. One year Martin got the same price for a 12-footer that I paid for an 8.
Over the years, we’ve had to go elsewhere for our trees. Motsingers closed with his passing. The Joe Edwards farm turned out to be much better organized and friendlier and with its nice gift shop and wine bar, more expensive. After many years, it closed and for two years we’ve looked for a replacement.
Meanwhile, the tradition has become somewhat formalized. We all meet at Elkin McDonalds and June distributes the hat garlands she’s made. After a snack, we drive up the mountain to the farm and start out among the trees looking for the perfect one. Each element of the family has its own specs. I usually identify a likely candidate for our house within a few minutes and it is immediately rejected. If there is snow on the ground, balls will fly. Lynn will pick a tree and put a face on it. Pictures will be taken of the tree selected with the selection family posing. After an hour and a half of cavorting through the grove, we are done and on our way to a restaurant.
Two things identify our group, the two “doodles” and the head gear we wear with the garlands June made. Also, we tend to make a bit of noise and laugh a lot. People notice us. Some look bewildered, some smile and some actually congratulate us for our Christmas spirit.
The Witherelves’ Christmas Traditions continue. Three generations doing these two things every year. As far as I can tell, there is no hint of such activities in previous generations. Great Mom, who was present for several Christmas “entertainments,” enjoyed them but was somewhat bewildered by them. The question June and I ask ourselves is how long can this go on. We didn’t purposely start these activities with the idea that they would go on forever. We do not want our offspring to feel an obligation to continue tree hunting and “entertainment” productions. If they come to an end, we will certainly miss them, but whatever happens, the memories of all these years of being Witherelves is something wonderful that has blessed June and I and will continue to light up our memories.