Lela Dirikson was just twelve-years-old in 1906, the year before Oklahoma became a
state. She and her mother and father and eight brothers and sisters lived on a 50-acre farm near
Durant, Oklahoma. They had no electricity. And the only water they had was what they carried
from the pump outside to the house in a large bucket, usually several times a day.
	December 23, 1906 was a terribly cold day. Snow lay at least 12 inches deep on the frozen
ground there on the farm. Lela's parents allowed the nine children to stay in the house, but they
themselves had to go out and take care of the cattle a few miles down the road.
	Lela and her fourteen-year-old sister, Ellie, were the oldest of the nine children, so they
were responsible for taking care of the house and of their brothers and sisters while their parents
worked. And they had the job of baking cakes and cookies for Christmas day.
	Lela was putting white icing on a big chocolate cake when Ellie said, "Sister, our poor
Christmas tree needs some sparkle. Let's get those red candles we saved from mama's birthday
and tie them on the tree."
	"No, we better not do that," Lela said, always the cautious one. She had heard stories
about how quickly cedar trees like their's could catch fire.
	"Aw, c'mon," Ellie insisted. "The little ones deserve something prettier than just those
strings of popped corn on the tree. You don't want to spoil Christmas for them, do you?"
	Lela looked at the other children, crowded around Ellie, their spokesperson, and saw the
pleading look in their innocent eyes.
	"Well,..." Lela said, giving in to their persuasive looks and to her own wish for a better
looking tree. "I suppose it would make that tree look a lot better. And it would be a nice surprise
for mama and papa when they get back to have it all decorated."
	They had helped their father select the big cedar tree from the thicket of cedars in the
north pasture. He had put the tree in the foyer, near three large windows, so that it could be seen
by any of the neighbors passing by. And it was a lovely tree. Just not enough decorations.
	So Lela and Ellie led the other children in the task of decorating the tree with candles.
Their oldest brother, ten-year-old Bud, ran and got the candles and a ball of twine. He used his
pocketknife to cut the twine into sections to be used to tie the candles onto the tree. Those three
oldest children soon had thirty red candles tied onto the cedar Christmas tree. And it was
absolutely beautiful in their eyes.
	Of course, only one thing could make it look better. That would be to have the candles all
lighted and sparkling. Ellie, being the oldest of the nine children, did those honors. And she was
careful to hold the match where only the candles would catch fire. Oh, it was just wonderful. And
the children stood there o-o-ohing and a-a-ahing for several minutes, then returned to their own
activities.
	Lela and Ellie were in the kitchen cooking when they simultaneously smelled something
burning and turned toward the front of the house to see grey smoke curling out from the foyer.
	"The Christmas tree is burning!" Ellie screamed. Everyone in the house rushed toward the
foyer, but luckily Ellie stopped the younger ones and ordered them to stay back.
	"Bud," she yelled like an army officer, "run down the road to Mr. Johns' house and tell him
to come help us. Quick."
	Bud shot out the back door as fast as a his little legs could run.
	There was a water bucket in the kitchen, and Ellie dash in there and threw the big dipper
aside. She rushed back to the burning tree and tossed the water at the fire. Some of it hit the
mark, and some of the flames sizzled and went out. But most of the water missed the mark, and
the flames went higher. 
	In mere seconds, the beautiful tree had become an inferno. The strings of white popped
corn were burned to a crisp. And the fire raced up the tree.
	Lela remembered that there was about a half of a pot of coffee on the big wood-burning
cookstove, left over from breakfast. So she ran to the kitchen, grabbed two pot holders and
picked up the blue-and-white enamel coffee pot and rushed back to the foyer. She reared back
and threw that coffee onto the burning tree. It helped slow the flames, but it was not enough to
stop them.
	Then Ellie thought of the buttermilk, still standing in the churn in the kitchen. She raced
in, retrieved the churn and ran right up to the flaming tree. She gave it a heave toward the burning
paper angel on the top of the tree, and the buttermilk seemed to explode from the mouth of the
churn. It splashed onto the tree and up on the scorched ceiling and onto the blackened wallpaper
behind the tree. And in seconds, the fire sizzled and then fizzled and then went out just as the tree
toppled on its side.
	Lela and Ellie dragged the blackened tree outside and rolled it in the snow, to make sure it
was out. And the six younger children, frightened and aware of their loss, were standing in the
doorway crying their hearts out when Bud and the neighbor, Mr. Johns, came running up the
road.
	Mr. Johns, seeing the fire was out, helped calm down the six younger children and then
returned home.
	Lela, Ellie and Bud set about trying to clean up the mess in the foyer. The coffee had
stained portions of the wallpaper a dirty brown, while the buttermilk had spotted a good portion
of the windows. And soot and the smell of fire was everywhere.
	"What are mama and papa going to say?" little Bud asked his two oldest sisters.
	They didn't have time to answer. The back door opened and in stepped their parents. 
	Their father shook his head as his eyes narrowed down to harsh looking little black beads.
Then, his voice booming with anger, he said: "We saw our Christmas tree outside, burned to
blazes. Your mama and me have told you dozen of times not to play with matches and not to put
any candles on the Christmas tree. You're the oldest, Ellie, so I hold you most responsible. And
my guess is that Lela had a part in this mess, too."
	Ellie held hands with Lela and with tears streaming down her cheeks said, "No, it was my
idea, father. And I'll take the whipping for it."
	Lela hung her head in shame. No one said a word.
	Then their mother quietly said, "Papa, these children have learned a hard lesson here
today. They could have burned the house down or, worse yet, some of them could have been hurt
real bad. But the house can be cleaned, and they are all safe."
	The expression on their father's face changed from anger to thankfulness, as he realized
how lucky they were that no one was hurt. He knelt down on one knee and held his arms out, and
all nine of the children rushed forward for his kisses and strong hugs.
	The entire family worked together to clean up the mess that the fire had made. They never
did get all of the coffee stains or the buttermilk stains off of the wallpaper, and until they could
afford new wallpaper a few years later the discoloration stood as a reminder of how dangerous
fire can be.
	The very next day, on the day before Christmas in 1906,with deep snow still on the
ground, the entire family bundled up and went up to the north pasture and cut down another
beautiful cedar tree. And they decorated it with colorful buttons and bows, and with new strings
of freshly popped corn. And it was beautiful. Even without--no, make that, especially without
candles.


__________________________________________________________________________End.
Written at Edmond, Ok., on 11-26-95. Based on a story by Lela Dirikson, "The Buttermilk Tree,"
in Good Old Days Christmas Memories (Berne, Ind.: House of White Birches, 1995, pp.
88-91).