By Nancy Barkemeyer

Special to teh Salsibury Post

Maybe it’s not told as often as the story about the shepherds and the wise men, but every Christmas somebody in my family recalls the year my dad returned from the war. It was an exceptionally cold winter in northern Alabama, icy and gray. The bleak mid winter, as the song goes. But all the family was back together and the farmhouse called “ home” couldn’t have been cozier or any brighter. Or, could it?

My grandmother, at the time, a widow with six strong sons and a brand new grandson, recalled lining a bureau drawer with quilts to make a cradle for the baby to sleep in. And she recalled maybe hearing pieces of the conversation about needing more firewood for the night. But she always “vowed and declared” she never told those boys to cut down her shade tree. She thought they knew better: never cut down a tree in winter. Winter doesn’t last forever.

And the landscape will change as sure as the earth orbits the sun. What looks dead in January may bud out in April. Bare branches become shade and boughs blossom. Sooner or later, the darkness lifts, the ice melts and the water subsides. It happens everywhere, even in the solstice of the soul.

Hold that thought and look around you. It’s winter and you may hate your job, your boss, your neighbors’ barking dogs, your kid’s rude friends, or your relatives who have overstayed their welcome at Christmas. The list could be endless. But before you tell off the man or kick Uncle Henry out of the house, wait. Wait for winter to pass. Come summer, you may want the shade those trees can offer.

As far as your kid is concerned, any arborist will tell you that some trees just need staking and shelter until they grow strong. That kid, and maybe his smart alecky friends too, could be your shelter in your twilight years. Being begins with becoming but it doesn’t end there. To everything there is a season.

That brings to mind another family tree story. This one, I remember. One of my dad’s favorite annual events was watching the Fourth of July fireworks on the top of the Red Mountain in Birmingham. The entire clan would pile into station wagons and sedans to sit on the hood of a car to ooh and aah at the sky while radios played patriotic music. Only not this one particular year. It seems my dad had been scouting out the best panoramic view for months. When he took us to a spot he had discovered back in the winter, we got to the top of the hill, and, what? All we could see was the vast canopy of trees. No red, white and blue sparkle. There’s a lesson there, too. But that’s the summer story. Wait.

Nancy Barkemeyer lives in Rowan County.