A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE IN THE WOODS
In the early 90's, I wrote monthly columns for a local newspaper. Following is one of those columns that seemed especially meant for sharing this time of year.
I grew up never knowing what a Christmas tree lot was. Christmas trees surrounded my hometown of Missoula, Montana. No self-respecting local resident would have ever thought of buying a Christmas tree. I imagine by now the town has fallen victim to processed, pre-cut, pre-judged coniferous Christmas trees cluttering every available street corner, and I doubt my grandchildren shall ever experience the joy of searching the woods for their very own special tree. Nor did my own children.
But, there once was a time when Christmas tree hunting required stamina, persistence, and an artistic, discerning eye rather than a quick trip to the nearest lot. The reward from such a hunt was a perfect tree that perfumed our home with the sweet smell of the forest for days and the family solidarity that had survived the test of several disputes in the woods over which was the most worthy tree.
The ritual began by everyone piling into the station wagon along with saw, axe, rope, and tire chains, and driving deep into one of the nearby forests. We selected an area in the forest and tumbled out of the cozy car into the crisp and cold winter air. Bundled up and awkward in layers of warm clothing (or snowsuits when we were younger) my sister and I led the charge into the forest. Two to three feet of pristine snow usually covered the ground. We took slow, giant steps, often sinking so deep into the snow that we lost our balance and fell over before we could free a leg for the next step.
Ever mindful of our search for the perfect tree, we pressed on. A likely specimen was circled several times and critiqued from all sides. We were constantly sure there was yet a better tree over the hill and didn't begin to narrow our selection until we started to grow weary and cold.
Once the tree was selected, it was our father's turn to do the sawing and chopping. We waited with great anticipation for his cry of "Timberrrr!" After our prize had fallen, Mother brought forth the Coleman thermos full of hot beef stew. Snuggling against the tree's branches, we hungrily ate the welcomed repast, feeling the warmth of the hot stew spread through our bodies and reenergize us for the arduous task of dragging the tree through the woods back to the car. The car was a joyous sight; the car heater even more cherished. Somehow the warmth of the stew never made it to the toes. Exhausted, my sister and I collapsed in the car while our father tied the tree to the roof.
Now at home, the tree had to be mounted on a cross of wood. (No fancy stands in those days.) If there were any spaces on the tree that needed a branch for Perfect Symmetry, our father would drill holes in the trunk of the tree and stick in an extra branch from the boughs we had also collected.
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Finally, when the tree was in place and met with everyone's approval, with just enough room between the top of the tree and the ceiling for the star, the decorating began. After we had worked so hard to acquire such a specimen, decorating the tree required no less dedication to detail.
Everyone was a director. The poor person who was selected to put the rows of lights on the tree was subject to constant harassment. (It was usually me.) Once the strings of lights were in place, the colored bulbs were carefully scrutinized and changed where necessary so that nowhere on the tree would there not be a proper mix of colors.
Unwrapping all of the different ornaments brought back memories of each previous Christmas. Each of us had our favorites and it was like revisiting old friends when, one after another, each ornament was freed from hibernation and positioned ever so carefully on the tree.
Over the week preceding Christmas, the tree was laced with strings of popcorn and cranberries, and tinsel was patiently placed on the tree, one strand at a time--for that is how tinsel must be placed on a tree. By Christmas Eve, it truly was a more beautiful tree than all those that had gone before it.
The Christmas of 1952 was different. Our father was in the hospital recuperating from a traumatic and, at that time, experimental operation for cancer. I had just turned fifteen and become a licensed driver. There was nothing to do but for my sister and me to carry on the tradition alone. My mother raised her eyebrows at the suggestion but did not stop us. I am sure she was full of trepidation as we left the house on snow-laden roads-chains, axe, saw, and rope in tow.
My sister and I brought the same intensity as in previous years to our search. I managed to avoid careening into a snow bank or getting stuck, and I discovered I had a natural talent for chopping down trees. What a triumph to return home with a beautiful seven-foot tree tied to the roof of the car!
Our father came home from the hospital a few days before Christmas. How wonderful it was to have him home, to see the surprise in his face when he saw the tree in all its glory and to watch him bask in delight over our adventure in the woods. Tears, which he quickly brushed aside, welled in his eyes. Surely, that tree was the most beautiful Christmas tree there ever was or ever will be.
NEXT MONTH: South Africa, The Rainbow Nation
MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!
If you do not celebrate Christmas, then I wish for you all the joy of the season.
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I WANT TO THANK THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE TAKEN THE TIME TO LET ME KNOW HOW MUCH YOU ARE ENJOYING MY MUSELETTER AND ARE PASSING IT ON TO OTHERS YOU THINK MIGHT ENJOY IT. IT GIVES ME GREAT PLEASURE TO HEAR FROM YOU. YOUR COMMENTS ARE WELCOMED!
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EMAIL: allison@dancewitheagles.com
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WINGS Vol. III, No 8, December, 2004
