A Storm, A branch and a pillbox hat

Or the Christmas we took down the tree too soon

My family lived in an old farmhouse in suburban Rochester. We had a full household that included my parents, my brothers Tim and Mark, my mother’s mother, Olga, and her sister Eleanor. The Christmas of 1960, when I was 4, stands out in my memory because of several exceptional events—the biggest being an ice storm that caused power outages across the region.

Our holiday celebrations began in mid-December with selecting the tree at a nearby market. My father was not an exceptionally patient man, but to his credit, he hefted one tree after another for the family’s inspection. Grandma was the harshest critic, giving the thumbs-down to most of the offerings. Every year, selection usually took the better part of an hour or until Dad couldn’t take it anymore, and this time was no exception. Finally Dad roped the chosen evergreen—which wasn’t perfect but would have to do—to the top of the car for the trip home, where the decorating took another long span of time.

Each of us had a job. Dad set up the tree next to the fireplace, tying guide wires

from the walls and ceiling to stabilize it. Mom and Dad strung the lights, and Grandma placed the garland. We kids then put up the ornaments.

That weekend, a warm front passed through upstate New York, causing heavy rain. Then the temperature rapidly dropped, coating everything in ice. Power lines and tree branches drooped and fell.

We awoke to a cold house. School was canceled, and when Mom and Dad got home from work, we all got in the car to search for a hot meal. Grandma Olga, who believed there was never an excuse for looking bad, even when the weather was rotten, donned her camel’s-hair coat, brown leather gloves and matching pillbox hat.

We thawed out for an hour or so at a nearby diner before returning to our frigid home. Our yard had several mature trees, all with sagging branches heavy with ice. We rushed inside, but Grandma Olga couldn’t resist a quick gossip session outside with the next-door neighbor.

A few minutes later, my grandmother barreled into the house, blood dripping down her cheek. A tree branch had fallen

Grandma Olga couldn’t resist a quick gossip session outside with the next-door neighbor.

on her! Mom and Dad rushed her to the hospital, where the doctor put eight stitches in her scalp. He advised her to resume wearing her pillbox hat after they healed, as it had probably saved her life.

Grandma Olga, meanwhile, felt only dismay at the big dent in her beautiful hat.

The next night, with the electricity still out, Dad decided that we needed to light a fire to warm the house. That meant taking down our beautiful Christmas tree. Tim and I wondered how Santa would get in to deliver our presents with a fire going. But Dad was quick on his feet. “We’ll send Santa a telegram,” he said, “to let him know the back-porch door is open.”

After we disassembled the tree and Dad left for the telegraph office (or so we were told), we were warming up in front of a fire. Suddenly all the lights came back on.

“I guess we should have waited a little longer to take the tree down,” Mom said.

The story ends happily. Santa must’ve received the telegram in time because on Christmas morning I got the teddy bear I asked for and Tim got the cowboy outfit with cap gun that he asked for.

And I have never forgotten the lesson of Grandma Olga’s pillbox hat: It pays to be fashionable.