Getting the Christmas tree is a big deal to me.
As a little girl, I remember my father and I suiting up (my mother had me layered in clothing so I looked like Randy). Then heading out to our farm to hunt down the perfect Christmas tree. I would typically lose a layer of the heavy clothing on the long drive to the farm.
Once we arrived at the driveway leading up to the hippie property my parents owned, we would traditionally attempt driving up the snowy or icy, washed out, gravel road. Inevitably, we parked the car and we began our hike. I typically lost a layer in the car, because I knew that hiking up to the top of the highest ridge in the county would be toasty. Even in December.
Once we arrived at the farm property line the verbal tour through my dad’s memories would begin. Even though I have never spent the night on that farm I could tell you how most of my adult siblings spent their summers there.
The pond that was dug out. My siblings swam in this in the summer time and had to watch out for turtles or small fish. Grown over now.
The tiny farmhouse. The home of many games of the survivalist child “North Wind.” Wasps nests decorating the eves now, but all silence in December.
The large piles of rocks; set a good distance from the house where a mangy dog had been put to rest after wandering up and scaring the wits out of my siblings and mother.
The white pine forest on the backside of the property. I don’t know how my sisters and brother saw this part of the property but it may very well be my favorite part. The forest floor is so dense with pine needles that one cannot walk through it without feeling like a proficient Native American stalking his prey.
My father and I would wander around and around until he finally decided he had found a decent tree. It would, of course, be about four times the size of a tree that could fit in our house.
My father would bring hand saws and axes, which meant that this part of the day would take the most time.
Making sure the tree was short enough and then dragging it back down the knob is a haze in my memory. Perhaps by this time I was exhausted. I have a good habit of forgetting things I didn’t enjoy as much.
Chapped lips, cold noses and a mostly empty belly–excepting jerky and some water—We would begin our drive home.
Today, Kit and I go for the easier route. Perhaps less adventurous but getting a live tree is the house is a marvelous goal.
Our tree comes from a store and is a variety not quite so prickly for decorating. The smell is sweet and is perfect to bury your nose in when you come home.
This is part one of three of my posts of Christmas tree pictures. The rest will be shorter.
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