[1/23/05] There was a rumor going ’round my family as far back as two years ago that my uncle had built a bottle tree for his daughter. Then his other daughter wanted one. He’d welded them with a strong base and a stake so that they could bear the weight of many, colored bottles.

I said I wanted one. My mother said, no, that SHE wanted one. My Aunt Judith laughed and said the next thing we’d want was old tires lining our driveways.

I’ve longed for a bottle tree for years. I remember seeing them dot the landscape I’d pass riding shotgun standing up next to my grandfather in his truck.

Felder Rushing makes it sound SO easy to make your own bottle tree. But, it’s not.

I tried per Felder’s suggestion making one out of a 6-foot dead Christmas tree I found in a Toronto alley. It wasn’t easy to prune, and nobody there understood why I was sticking bottles on a dead tree. Explaining about protection from evil spirits whilst I cleaned blood off my knuckles didn’t seem to answer the Canadians’ questions. And, when I turned down brown bottles because I didn’t think they would attract the evil spirits, I lost them.

“It’s a Southern thing,” I’d finally say, and they’d nod.

The bottle tree never quite achieved my vision. It looked more like an old Christmas tree with a lot of brown empties stuck on the branches.

Eventually, the bottle tree collapsed under the weight of the bottles, smashing against the driveway. I abandoned the tree, but I didn’t abandon my yearning for a bottle tree.

Thinking the tree had been too big for me to handle, I snagged an overgrown lantana stump that friends were just going to throw out. It worked much better, although I’ve never mastered getting the base anchored properly.

Then one Friday evening last summer my Uncle Charles called me. He wanted directions to my house. He said I should be up early Saturday, and I should make coffee. He said he was bringing me my bottle tree. I had commented to him that I would love one. He said he would make me one. Since he’s a farmer, I thought maybe during winter downtime.

Driving that Saturday morning from Benoit, he showed up in Vicksburg before 11 a.m. by way of west Madison County.

“I just took your Mama hers,” he said. My Uncle Charles doesn’t tarry.

We picked a spot on the south side of my house against the fence.

We sat on the porch drinking coffee and debating the merits of collecting many colors or choosing one color to adorn the tree.

I’ve opted for blue only so it’s taking longer to fill it. The lantana stump is still there, taking the non-blue bottles, and serving as a little extra insurance against the evil spirits who might fly my way. The bottle trees I remember from my Delta drives were different than mine, but when I see the sun glint off the blue bottles, I see my roots, my family reflected back to me. And that was worth the wait.

Sonya Kimbrell is features editor of The Vicksburg Post. E-mail her at skimbrell@vicksburgpost.com.