It was 1986. We had given, sold and stored away our life’s possessions, left our business to the management of a trusted friend, bought a small camper, and headed north on April Fool’s Day on a nine-month journey around the North American continent. We were now about a month into our journey and reveled in the beauty of Oregon.
My fascination with the Christmas tree began when I was a small child who thought it would be fine to thrust tinsel in handfuls at the family Christmas tree which stood in front of our living room picture window.
Family gathers near the Christmas tree for a portrait photo, 1962 “No, no, no!” my mother said in a stern tone. “You do it like this.” And she plucked out one strand of silver and laid it gently over a branch. “At this rate,” I thought to myself, “We will never have the tree decorated!” But one-by-one my mother, brothers and sisters and I affixed each length of tinsel to our pungent spruce. And before too long, the tree stood, shimmering in its silver gown.