Burns Road

Dee Burns was laid to rest Monday.

Thirteen years ago we moved into his "neighborhood" in rural Montana. He lived up the hills from us. He was 72 years old then. He drove a battered orange Chevy truck. He lived on the small ranch where he was born. He served in WWII. He came home and never left again. He never married.

Genuine blue eyes were set in his weathered face. His kind, steady gaze made me feel like he was listening with his heart...and always polite.

He never came into my home instead leaning his lanky frame against his truck more comfortable in the elements of Montana. He conserved water--and like a boy I know, conserved more water than I thought necessary :)

That first Christmas in our new location he invited us to come up and cut our Christmas tree. He persisted. What he didn't know is we had never had a "real" Christmas tree. We didn't even own decorations.

But obviously, he had fond memories of Christmas because he wanted to make sure our little girls had a Christmas tree. He had a soft spot for children, as I would watch a gentleness seep into those beautiful eyes as he watched them play.

We accepted his invitation--probably more out of politeness because I didn't even know how we would decorate it.

I remember piling into the truck and driving up that old dirt road (his namesake) bouncing around--much to the delight of the girls. A skiff of snow covered the ground. Dee had already picked out a couple fine trees and instructed us where to go.

The raw beauty of the Montana landscape stirs my heart at the memory of that day. The wind nipped at our cheeks as Ron asked me, "Which one?" I remember studying the trees closely, having no idea what I really wanted, but my husband knew which one he wanted. When he was a boy he would help his mother decorate. She loved Christmas. It still is her favorite holiday.

I remember standing looking out over the landscape amidst the jutting pines and crisp white snow, listening as my husband pulled the saw back and forth. Montana can really put human significance in perspective at the top of the hill.

Then I began gathering pine cones with creative visions of potential ornaments.

After loading the tree, I was grateful to crawl back into the warmth of the truck cab. Bouncing back down the the hill, we paused at Dee's homestead where he was waiting to greet us and admire the tree. Grinning proudly, he waved as we pulled away.

That little tree filled our living room windows. The scent of fresh pine filled the house, as Ron taught me how to string the lights.

I can still visualize that first humble tree twinkling in our home and the glittering pine cones.

I don't know if Dee ever realized it was our first tree.

But...

I do know Dee loved my ham and bean soup.

I do know where Dee's mother's recipe for dandelion wine is.

I do know that Dee was kind to our family.

I do know when we decorate our Christmas tree so far away in California, we will reminisce fondly about Dee.

Wrapped in the warmth of human kindness, we embraced our first Christmas tree as a family, and for us, a family story and tradition evolved.