Bear Grease - Ep. 401: This Country Life - It's All About the Christmas Trees

Episode Date: December 19, 2025

Bringing a tree in your house is only acceptable once a year. Do it any time outside of Christmas and people will think you're weird. Brent's got a few examples of Christmas trees this week and even goes into his struggle in keeping his favorite decoration. Stars, fishing, and flames abound on this week's "This Country Life" podcast. Shop This Country Life Merch Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, and Youtube Clips Subscribe to the MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Shop This Country Life Merch Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

First Light's fieldwear collection is made for the work that happens long before opening day and continues when the season ends. Products built for early mornings, full days in real use. Hard wearing where they need to be versatile where it matters. No shortcuts. Just gear designed for the work that earns the season. Built to perform, built to last. Check out.

First Light's new fieldwear gear at firstlight.com. Welcome to this country life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From Coon Hunting to Trotlining and Just General Country Living, I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives from the Storemore Studio on Meat Eat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcasts that Airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share.

It's all about the Christmas tree. It's that time of year when lots of friends and families start gathering to celebrate Christmas. Regardless of gifts and activities, the one central item or gathering spot usually has a tree of some kind in close proximity. Christmas trees are the theme this week, and I'm sharing a new story and one that I've told before that's so good it'll probably be in the Christmas rotation from now on. But before I tell you that one, I'm going to tell you this one. This first story was handed to me by the man who wrote it, Jeremy Sloan. Jeremy and his son Jacob had driven two hours from their home near Joplin, Missouri, to meet me at the Shepherd Hill celebration of the Ozarks event I spoke at last September.

We visited for not nearly long enough, and I could tell right away listening to him talk, that these two were my kind of folks. Before they left, Jeremy handed me an envelope and said, here's something for you to read sometime. I handed it to my wife Alexis and she stuck it in my backpack. Jeremy thanked me for the stories I tell on here and said he hoped I enjoyed the one that he'd given me. I opened it that night after we got back to the hotel and inside I found a handwritten letter. It was well thought out.

neatly written. I knew it would be one to share when the time was right. Now it is. So without further delay, here's the Christmas tree, with my voice using the words of Jeremy Sloan. When I was growing up, I loved spending time with my great uncle. His name was James Wooten. He was born and raised in Arkansas,

and later in life he moved to Oklahoma. My uncle had a love for God in the outdoors, and James loved growing a garden, grafting pecan trees, camping, fishing, and just enjoying nature. Now, we would always get together for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I lived two hours away in Missouri, so we didn't get to see each other as often as we wanted, and I always cherish the time I got to spend with him. Growing up, I'd spend a week with him in the summer and we'd ride horses. We'd work in his garden. We'd go camping and fishing and always eat good food. After I grew up, my uncle retired. We started a yearly camping trip.

We would meet down on the river, and that trip became our new tradition. We always caught plenty of fish. Sometimes we'd eat fresh-caughts trout for breakfast, dinner, and supper. We spoke the same language, even though I was grown and he was old enough to be my grandpa, when we were together, we acted like a couple of kids. On one trip late in the fall as we were fishing our honeyhole,

we noticed a big cottonwood tree. There were many cottonwoods lining the banks of our river, but this one was full of fishing lures. It reminded me of a Christmas tree, the way all the jigs and the spinners hung down, from the limbs. Those limbs stretched out like fingers, grabbing every fly and lure

it could get its greedy hands on. Years of lures hung there shining in the sun and swaying in the breeze, free for anyone adventurous enough to attempt to get them. For two days, we joked about trying to recover all the lost and abandoned tackle. But the water was way too cold to wade

and the limbs were way too high to reach. What I didn't know was that my uncle was coming up with a plan. On the last day of our trip, he showed me a long stick that he had whittled the notch into to act as a hook. It'd be my job to use it to pull the limbs down to where he could reach baits as he waded out into the frigid water to retrieve them. We waited for the sun to go down, and after all the fishermen had left before, we began. My uncle waited out into the freezing river and started collecting the lures from the limbs I pulled down to within his reach. He gathered the treasure that hung from the tree and made several trips back and forth, each time working up enough courage to go back out a little further and deeper from the bank,

returning from each trip with all the lures and tackle he could hold. We started laughing at our success and could. and stop, we'd hit the fisherman's jackpot. After getting all we could, we hiked back to the camper. My uncle changed it to some dry clothes while I made a pot, hot coffee. We separated all the lures onto several paper plates. In the camper we sat around the table, admiring the flies, the jigs, the spinners, the hooks, and the bobbers. We might not ever have to buy tackle again.

We took turns choosing our favorites one at a time back and forth until it was all evenly divided between us. I will never forget that night. Many years have passed and my uncle is no longer on this earth. I know that he's in the big campground in the sky. He was my outdoor hero and I think about my Uncle James often. Like when my kids and I go fishing. or I'm just out working in the garden. I think about him the most during Christmas

and the time we found the Christmas tree of every fisherman's dreams. Well, Jeremy and my friend, I can't thank you enough for sharing that wonderful memory of you and your Uncle James. Stories like Jeremy's aren't uniquely American, but they are, without a doubt, the very definition of Americana. Thank you, buddy.

Now, I don't want y'all to think I'm lazy or running out of stuff to talk about because, like I said, the story I'm about to tell you I've told before. As a matter of fact, I told y'all this yarn about a year ago. And for those that are interested, it was an absolute chore to record because I couldn't stop laughing. My gal pal, Riva Hanson, mediator's sound engineer extreme, the lady who struggles to make me sound like I know what I'm talking about every week. said it was the most start and stops and do-overs of any recording I'd ever send her. I love to be able to tell y'all that what you hear every week is exactly what I send Riva, but that would be a bald-faced lie. I may read a paragraph I wrote three times in a row or mispronounce a name or

confuse myself with my own writing to the point I have to edit the script myself right on the spot. Then I send that whole recording including all the redos, the do-overs, and the corrections for her to sort out in her office way up in the frozen tundra of Bozeman, Montana. She takes all the calamity out of that amalgamated word jumble of nonsense, adds some music, and publishes what you good folks have allowed me to job in your ear holes every week. This story was a classic from the first time I read. read it when this country life listener, Dane Fuller sent it to me last December. Dane is a storyteller, and as far as I'm concerned, he should be known as the Bard of Oklahoma. Timeless classics for the Yuletide season include stories from generations before us that are still relevant and being told today.

This is one of those that I will go to my grave, saying ranks right up there with the best of them. In 1843, Charles Dickens penned a Christmas carol. In 1966, Jean Shepherd wrote, In God we trust, all others pay cash. That was turned into a screenplay that we all know as the movie A Christmas Story. And in 2024, Dane Fuller emailed me the Christmas tree. It will be made into a movie one day, and when it is, I'm going to make a fortune selling paper towels

and depends in the theater lobby. Here it is again, just as Dane sent it to me. And his words and my voice. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason Phelps at Phelps game calls in building each of our own favorite turkey diaphragms

called prime cuts. Now, I'm going to tell you, I love mine because it's easy to use. I'm not going to go, I'm not going to win a turkey calling contest. It's just not going to happen. But when I run this call, I get the sound.

that gobblers are looking for. I have a great turkey hunting track record. If you go listen to real turkeys out in the woods, they're not going to win calling contests, right? That's who I listen to. I can make those sounds on my cut. I also hunt with Phelps's cut, and I hunt with Clay's cut because they're all three great cuts.

Check out Prime Cuts at Phelpsgamecalls.com. I think you'll be glad you did, and you'll find out that the Steve Rinella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action. This is what might very well be the best Christmas story ever. Even though it took place roughly 50 years ago, most of my cousins and I will attest that this is a mostly factual account.

Growing up, Christmas Eve meant one thing. Mamaw and Papaw's house. It was a tradition of the Fullers, dating back to, I believe, three days after Dirt was invented. R.C. Peck and Edith Gert Fuller had a pretty big family, five boys and a girl. Eventually, as kids back then did, they all left home to start families of their own, and soon they began bringing them back for the holidays. Not only kids and grandkids were there, but there were great aunts, uncles, second cousins, and so forth.

By the 1970s, there was approximately 597 men, women, and children crammed into that old house out in the sticks of Muskogee County in northeastern Oklahoma every Christmas Eve. Not really that many, but man, it sure seemed like it. Now, one particular December 24th, the house was filled to capacity. We had all eaten supper, and everyone was gathered in the front room. All of us grandkids were excited because Pap had finally said we could open presents. Our grandparents weren't rich.

In fact, they had very little. Somehow, though, every year, they managed to get us all something. This year, times must have been a little tougher than normal. Instead of buying a tree, Pap had gone up the hill with his double-bitted axe and chopped down the cedar tree a few weeks earlier. By the time the festivities rolled around, that cedar tree had turned the color of a brown paper bag. Keep in mind, the Christmas lights back in the 70s were of the variety that could rival the temperature of the sun. Twinkle lights weren't anywhere close to happening.

Seeing as how that tree had morphed into something akin to napalm, the adults in the room had decided that no string of Christmas lights would be plugged in. The grandkids tried their cow-eyed best, their angelic faces to convince papal into plugging them in, but he wouldn't budge. All of us tried except for one. Scott. Cousin Scott was born into the middle third of the order as far as the grandkids' ages went. However, he was lead off on the kind of kid that when his dad said not to do something or he'd get a whooping, Scott would ask how much of one.

It was awesome being Scott's cousin back then. I could tear the bar down, and if he was there, I'd never get so much as looked at. Everybody just knew Scott did it. Anyway, he was seated next to me that night, and next to him was the television. Behind it was the outlet that would have held the plugs that were lying on the floor going to the lights that were still draped onto the television.

the Christmas tree. The duty of passing our presence that night had fallen on Aunt Judy, the lone girl of the Fuller kids, and being a girl with five brothers, Judy had put up with a lot in her day. Not enough, though, to have obtained a calm demeanor capable of taking on anything. To say that she is easily frazzled is an understatement. After the first 20 or so kids had gotten their presence, Judy was nearing the end of her rope. The sound of shredding paper and squeals of delight and parents yelling at their kids to wait their turn

had taken its toll on duty. It was at that precise moment that Scott made his mood. Without tapping my knee or giving me so much as I, hey, watch this, I observed him as he slithered behind the TV and picked up the light stream plug. Eager to see the lights and maybe watch him get the butt-busting of his life, I didn't say a word. He gave me a look, and with that crooked smile, he plugged in the lights.

Oh, what a glorious sight. The red, blue, green, and orange bulbs sprang into life. Nobody noticed except for me, Scott's sister Charmin, and my sister, Karen. The adults were too busy breaking up fights over cat pistols and baby dolls. They had no idea of the coup that. that Scott had pulled off for about two seconds. Almost as suddenly as the lights had appeared, they were being put to shame by the flames shooting out from under that long, dead cedar tree.

Now, everyone had noticed. Uncle Peewee grabbed the cord and tried to yank it out of the socket, and in doing so, he knocked over the inferno that was once considered a Christmas tree. Things sort of got blurry after that. The house was full of smoke. Dads grabbed kids and started literally throwing them toward the back door. Moms had run from the kitchen to catch them before any bones were broken. Uncle Rudy waited through the sea of kids, the wrapping paper, and the toys, and made it to the tree.

He began trying to stomp out the fire. Somebody, no one knows who, got the front door open. The very door that hadn't been open for years because Mamma didn't want to tear off. hole in her carpet. Terrified me because I sat next to the door and had been threatened with a switch for even acting like I might open it. I knew, without a doubt, I would get whooped for snagging the carpet no matter to the black hole that had just been burned into it.

Uncle Tuffy, Scott's dad, grabbed the steel burning torch of a tree, knocked me out of the way and threw it out into the front yard. Amidst the chaos, the screams, and the smoke, still in the center of the room was Judy. Running for her life with her hands clasping her face, she was screaming, oh my gosh, over and over. Trying desperately to get herself and her kids out alive, she had never made it one inch farther from the tree than she was at the moment of combustion. She was literally running in circles. Pap had never made it out of the recliner. Dad had never made it off the couch,

and both were laughing as hard as I had ever seen anyone laugh. By now, Scott had made it out from behind the RCA. He probably knew that he should run while he was still able, but he was too busy enjoying the fruits of his labor. Amhered by the sight of all the carnage, he never noticed his dad reaching for him, and no one knows exactly what happened to Scott. God once his dad pulled him away, but when he came back and the tears dried up,

he was as quiet as a church mouse for the rest of the night. Christ is averted. It wasn't long until all the windows and doors in the house were open to let the smoke out. And everyone had resumed their positions, though all were now wearing their coats. What was left of the presents was handed out, and Scott never sat next to that old TV again. and according to Dane Fuller, Native Oklahoma, now spying on the Texans down in Childers, that's just how that happened.

Now, Dane, once again, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for sending that treasure that I enjoy telling as much as I do hearing it myself. That whole thing plays like an old-time home movie complete with big-haired ladies and corduroy britches and flat-top haircuts. I can smell the cedar burning as if I was right there when Uncle Tuffy saved the day. I absolutely love this story. Thank you, buddy. Now, still on the subject of trees, many moons ago, when Alexis and I were as broke as Job's turkey,

a phrase my sainted grandmother, Mama Sly, used to describe poor folks, it was all we could do to afford to pay attention, much less by a bunch of Christmas decorations. It was our first Christmas, and while we had a tree, we needed a star for the top. And I bought one at Walmart. It was cheap, kind of gaudy-looking, but it was a star, and outside of representing the star, Bethlehem, it signified our first Christmas together as a family. For years now, me and my bought-on-a-budget star have weathered yearly attempts to be replaced by something of a more cosmetically appealing nature.

I have stood my ground and told them that they can decorate the tree every year with whatever they want. I don't care what they hang on the limbs. They can string popcorn. They can throw tinsel. They can release possums. They can hire Martha Stewart herself to come over and decorate it and I'll pay for it. But the first time someone replaces that star, we're going to have problems. I get it.

There's prettier things out there. One could argue that it was designed and put together in the table. dark and from the looks of it, I couldn't prove it wasn't. But that heavy, old, ugly silver star that sheds glitter like a shaggy dog is more than just a tree topper. It is the mark where we were at a time when getting by was a struggle. And extras were few and far between. After everyone else has gone to bed and it's just me and whaling, I see that star sitting up there and I can hear the laughter echoing in a small apartment of a new family. The beginnings of what would evolve into our way of life as we walk together into what has become our existence.

It is a symbol of a time when we didn't see that star is settling for less, but rather looking at it as being grateful for what we could afford. Alexis is going to hear this, maybe, and if she does, she's going to roll her out. most assuredly. Her idea of keeping something around after it starts to look beat up ends with me. For now, anyway, but regardless, I don't ask for anything for Christmas. I have everything I've ever wanted in then so. I love to give and I can't keep a present longer than a week or so

before I break down and give it to whomever I bought it for just because I can't wait to see the expression on their face when they get it. So, my gift to me every year is a clunky metal star that's as appealing on the tree as the starter off an 8-in Ford tractor would be, both in appearance and gross weight. Or as the rest of the Reese crew would suggest, gross weight and gross appearance. Ho, ho, who cares, the star stays another year. They ain't really mad about it if they were. they wouldn't be here with me right now to tell y'all this from me Alexis Bailey and Waylon the Wonderhound Merry Christmas

y'all be careful first lights fieldware collection is made for the work that happens long before opening day and continues when the season ends products built for early mornings full days in real use hard wearing where they need to be versatile where it matters no shortcuts just gear designed for the work that earns the season. Built to perform, built to last. Check out. First Light's new fieldware gear at firstlight.com.