It was 1964. Life hadn’t been great. This particular year had been mostly a nightmare. My Mother and Stepfather had separated. Finances were next to non-existent. Me being able to attend school became a burden for my Mother. At only fifteen, I was resigned to possibly, never finishing high school.

I was the oldest of, soon to be, eight children. My Stepfather, soon after marrying my Mother, started nearly daily abuse against me. The reasons were unclear and didn’t matter anyway, except it did matter to me. I had already lost a Father and was very ready for this man be his replacement. To never be able to find a way to be accepted and loved was the ‘greatest abuse’. Doomed perpetually to be the Scapegoat.

The previous year our family home was sold, and we were moved into a run-down shack, former hay barn and mouse abode, in the middle of a huge corn field in the middle of absolutely nowhere. For those who were concerned, the explanation was to raise the children in the country away from undue influences that come with city life. To teach them country ways and survival practices. The real reason was for a man to isolate and control his wife and children.

I truly loved the chickens, raised from chicks. We kids all loved catching grasshoppers to feed the little creatures. We had two dogs for a spell, raised from pups. That was until they started tag teaming the chickens. A family court determined which one would stay and which one would go. That felt good, except I wanted the one that had to go, but was strangely comforted in the knowledge that Stepfather also wanted that particular dog to stay.

My sister and I explored the countryside and found many wonderful places, creatures and things. A nest of baby mice or rats in the middle of the corn field. The dog named Mutt scratched them up. They were beautiful! Unlike the gray or brown mice, I had seen in the city, these were multicolored, and some were spotted. My desire was to have one or more as pets. However, Mom would never go for that, so, we covered them back up, to sleep till their Mother’s return. Then, on we went with our adventure. That day we found a lovely little stream with tadpoles, minnows and crayfish to catch. Alongside the stream, on a high bank, was an evergreen tree. We both thought it looked like a Christmas tree. Soon our attention was directed elsewhere, and the Sun indicated we needed to head back to the house as supper was imminent.

Country life became a much harsher reality when Winter came to the North Missouri prairie country, we lived in. Nothing stops the wind, and it blows and blows. Add snow to that and it becomes a howling monster. The Stepfather hadn’t planned well for Winter. There wasn’t enough wood or coal to burn and the drafty old shack didn’t keep out the wind or snow. When I developed pneumonia and Mother discovered once again, she was with child, she left her husband and the old shack, to move back to the city.

Winter had its grip, though. Even in the city. Blizzard conditions prevented us from moving into the house that Mom had rented for the family. This was early December 1963. Mom and we seven children were invited to stay with her Brother and his wife and seven children. We waited out Winter’s worst for a week in a four-room shotgun double-tenement. Fourteen children and three adults. There were several miracles, the most miraculous perhaps, was no arguing or scrapping going on among the children. Not even a little one for the entire week.

Soon, the weather broke, and we were finally able to move into our, new to us, home. It was an older, large two story. The furniture did not fill it up, but it was warm. It was quickly apparent that the Social Security Mom received for we two oldest girls, as our own Father was deceased, was not enough to bring food into the house or do Christmas. Neighbors provided a Christmas tree, they had one too many and Santa made a Christmas Eve visit with toys and food. Mom had gotten government commodities of which flour was a big part. She bought yeast and nearly every day made homemade bread. This took the family into 1964.

1964 was the worst year, to date, I had ever experienced. My Stepfather and I just could not get along. He was spending more time with his family as the birth of the new child was imminent. Mom decided to send me to live in with the woman I babysitted for. While living away from the rest of the family in what was supposed to be a haven from my Stepfather, I came to know and experience the worst of humanity. Worse even than my Stepfather. The problem, I couldn’t just go back to Mom. She rejoined her husband after the birth of another daughter. They were back in the country, only in a better house.

I did manage to get away and was able to stay a while with the same Uncle and Aunt who had given our family shelter the winter before. Just long enough to contact and have my Stepfather pick me up and bring me back to Mom. This was not a grand reunion. Tensions were high. It was obvious the Stepfather had no desire to have me back under his roof.

It was 1964 and Christmas time again. We were told there would not be a tree or the regular celebrations. Remembering the venture, we had the Summer of 1963, Sister Thelma and I decided to revisit the little tree. I found a roofing tool, the nearest thing to an axe that could be found. We struck out on a cold December day in Northwest Missouri. Off to re-find the evergreen on the stream bank, that looked like a Christmas tree. The finding seemed to take forever. Once found again, we discovered that the tree was now precariously standing over the stream on a much washed-out bank. Undaunted, I began chopping with the makeshift hatchet. The trunk of the tree was perhaps no more than six to eight inches diameter. The chopping was not a quick job. Chopping, chopping, chopping, forever it seemed. Eventually, the tree did topple. Right into the stream. I had to find way down into the stream and back out again, with the tree. There was no way to retrieve the tree without getting feet wet. However, I was on a mission, and nothing was going to prevent getting this Christmas tree back to the house and the little ones. Not blisters, frozen feet, barbed wire fences, bulls, cold wind or treacherous terrain.

It was late, nearly dark when we made it home. Mom, not for the first time, had worried about us for hours. Neither of us had mentioned where we were going or what we were doing. The tree made it without much damage and was a big surprise to everyone. Mom got the decorations out and the setting of the tree began and was finished by the time Stepfather made it home. The look of amazement on his face when Mom told him. we had gone out, chopped it down and brought it home. The look of ‘not just amazement’, but respect, was the best gift I could have ever received.

This was the first Christmas the new sister would know, and the last Christmas Stepfather would ever spend with the girls or his wife and own children. The tree was only a Cedar, not a Scotch Pine, but it was a good Christmas Tree.

Edited to first person December 11, 2021, NBN