When I was an 8-year-old boy growing up in Cherry Hill, N.J., in the 1960s, the star had only one significance that really mattered to me. Stars crowned the tops of Christmas trees.
My father often spoke of a star he'd crafted while a boy of 8 growing up in Payson. We knew the details by heart. Dad had chanced upon a large, thin piece of tin at a construction site during one of his frequent scavenging expeditions. He explained in loving detail how he worked the shiny metal with a nail and a pair of pliers — creating an elaborate five-pointed Christmas wonder one indentation at a time. A child of the Great Depression, my father had taken understandable pride in presenting his family with his treasure one Christmas Eve.
"A tree needs a star," he said as he placed the bumpy silver masterpiece into his father's hands. His voice always became thick with emotion as he explained how this lone tin star transformed a simple tree. It's a phrase my father cannot utter with dry eyes.
All of which makes it surprising that our family never had stars of any kind on our Christmas trees when I was growing up. We had what many people had — elaborate pinnacles of blown glass filled with magically prismatic indentations that captured the light and sent it dancing.
In 1966, I was in Miss Casey's third-grade class — more excited about "Thingmakers" and "Sonic Blasters" than new math. So, when she suggested we make decorations instead of taking a math test, the classroom erupted in an understandable wave of holiday cheer.
I knew immediately what my decoration would be. On Christmas Eve, I'd present a treasure to the family they'd never forget.
With this image driving my creativity, I went to work. Most of the kids finished early, but I knew I was crafting a piece of lasting family tradition. I sacrificed recess and part of lunch, making sure this would be the star worthy of my visions. When I finished, I was not disappointed. It was magnificent. Tinfoil, paint and seven varieties of pasta on one side; a gold-painted toilet paper tube on the other.
Over the next 11 days, I guarded my creation carefully, sneaking it into the house on the day before Christmas Eve. This was going to be the best Christmas ever, and there would be no one else to thank for it but me.
That night at dinner, I overheard Mom and Dad talking about "Sub for Santa" or "Supper for Santa" or something else I had never heard of. I gathered that it involved bringing presents, dinner and a small Christmas tree to some needy family in Philadelphia. We always went to Philadelphia for Christmas Eve to visit my aging Aunt Jean who lived alone. I reasoned the visit would be the perfect time and venue for my selfless act of giving. It took everything I could muster to not break into a grin of utter self-satisfied superiority.
As was our custom, we were loaded into the Plymouth shortly after lunch, the corners of our mouths carefully smudged clean. Instead of taking the usual route through the "belly of the dragon," an avenue completely overgrown by a canopy of majestic maples, we went another way. A bleak and depressing way.
It was the first time in my memory that I had laid eyes on a trailer park. It scared me. As we meandered in and out of the many dead ends and cross streets, I soaked in every dismal detail.
At last, the car rolled to a stop. What kind of people lived in a place like this?
My horror was abruptly interrupted by my father's deep voice.
"Come on sport, you can help me."
As it turned out, that little detour changed my life forever.
Standing out on the porch, I was overcome with hope that nobody would be there — that we could just set the stuff down and make a run for it. My father tried the bell again and then knocked. After a moment, a woman appeared at the door. A boy who looked to be my age edged in between his mother and the door frame. I was old enough to know both she and my father were a little uncomfortable. As my father fumbled for words, this sad lady seemed frozen, with a strange, distant look which I now recognize as a combination of appreciation and desperation. The boy, for his part, looked excited as he pulled me forcibly into his world.
Robby showed me his amazingly compact home. The first thing I noticed was that Robby's trailer had no Christmas decorations. None save a tiny ceramic Santa Claus at the side of his bed. He said they didn't really have any decorations for the tree we'd brought, but he was happy to have a tree anyway. I found myself lost in a horrifying image; a picture of the woman and her son waking up Christmas morning to an empty, barren tree. That thought was more than I could bear. I was propelled out the door in search of the only relief of which I could think.
I reappeared moments later, just about the time my parents were wrapping up the visit. They exchanged holiday pleasantries and shook hands. My parents said goodbye and turned to leave.
I just stood there.
"Are you coming, sport?"
"Say goodbye to Robby, dear."
I didn't say anything. I just stood there. The moment was a lot tougher than I'd thought possible. I had planned and dreamed and schemed about the great Christmas star of 1966. The next big family tradition. Family history of my own making. I agonized for what seemed an eternity and then surprised everyone, including myself, when I produced an odd pentagon-shaped package from behind my coat. In a voice choked with emotion I whispered the phrase I knew so well: "A tree needs a star," I rasped.
Robby accepted the package with goofy appreciation. To this day I see that little face waving at me as we drove away in the comfortable familiarity of our shiny white Plymouth with its majestic fins.
Evan Twede of Sandy could hardly contain his excitement when informed that his story was going to be published. "I think this is just neat."
Twede and his wife are the parents of five children and he related how this story just kept kicking around in his head for years. "I just wanted to tell it," he said.
A native Utahn, Twede recently returned from Seattle where he was in the software development business. While at the University of Utah he did editorial cartoons for the "Chrony" and even some for the Deseret News.
His profession is advertising consultant but he's worked on some high-profile local political campaigns for Sen. Bob Bennett, Rep. Merrill Cook and former Gov. Norm Bangerter.