I was recently chatting with a friend about Christmas trees and was taken by surprise when she admitted that her favorite tree from her youth was a silver tinsel tree with a color wheel. As soon as I heard the words silver tinsel tree line up one after the other my hands went numb, my right eye began twitching, vertigo set in, the black and white spiral wheel spinning round and round, and then the flashback to my own youth. But before the flashback, let’s take a sharp left turn to a time before “The Tree” arrived.
You’ve seen those movies where the entire family bundles up in their winter coats and go in search of the perfect tree. That wasn’t my family. My mother picked out the tree, set it up, and that was that. Little girl me vowed when I had my own family, we would be a Norman Rockwell, It’s A Wonderful Life family. My husband and I, along with our perfect children, would put on our winter coats, pile into the family station wagon and head to the snowy mountains to enjoy our hot cider and sandwiches (cut on the diagonal) and then we would comb the forest to find the most gorgeous Christmas tree to take home.
My dream came true in 1979. Kind of…sort of…you’ll see.
It was the second Christmas of my favorite of all my children. It was a cold, bright, sunny day when we headed up to the mountains of Northern California in our Volkswagen bus to a Christmas tree farm where, as a family unit, we would decide on the perfect tree to take home. Bill and I were singing every Christmas carol we knew, and Nate was riding along in his car seat, bundled up in his plaid flannel shirt, Osh Kosh B’Gosh overalls and toddler down vest, his “B” by his side . The sun was shining when we arrived at the Christmas tree farm, dogs were yipping and chasing gleeful children around; the smell of hot apple cider tickled our noses, and Christmas carols filled the brilliant blue sky. A happy-go-lucky sort of fellow greeted us with a holiday smile and handed us a saw. “Go on out there and pick your tree, cut it down, and bring it back. I’ll help you put it in your bus.” I had finally landed in my very own Norman Rockwell painting.
So off we went – Nate riding on Bill’s shoulders, and me with a saw in my hand, and a song in my heart. There were so many trees to choose from and so many folks vying for them that we decided to walk on a little farther, away from the crowd. We finally came to a lovely patch of woods where a small house looked out over the forest. I commented on how difficult it must be to watch the trees grow year after year only to see them cut down. A lovely silver tip tree caught our eye, but on closer look had a bald spot on one side, and was democratically voted down. And then it appeared before us – the all time, hands down, most beautiful tree of them all. Perfectly spaced limbs, not a bald spot to be found, needles fresh and firm. We didn’t even need to vote. Bill immediately set to work sawing on the trunk while I took pictures so that we could look back on this most wondrous day forever and ever. I even took pictures of Nate sitting on the left behind stump, saw in his chubby hand, the winter sunlight streaming down on him. Truly an angelic lumberjack toddler portrait.
Once we actually sized up the tree now that it was lying on its side, it turned out to be so much bigger than it looked standing in a forest of other trees. Here’s an important fact that I will share with you: Before cutting down a tree in the woods, consider the size of your living room, height of your ceiling and, more importantly, the width of your entry door. I’m not placing any blame here, but Bill was the math teacher. I’m just sayin’.
When the tree was far too large and heavy for us to drag down the hillside to the happy-go-lucky fellow, we had to seek out his help. Mr. happy-go-lucky blanched when he saw the tree – perhaps, I thought at the time, we had chosen the very tree he had in mind for his own holiday. But when, in a horrified voice, he asked, “Where did you get that tree?” I felt Norman Rockwell duck behind the guy carving the Thanksgiving turkey. “Over there.” “Over there” it seems was still the backyard of that small house overlooking the forest. Oops! doesn’t quite cover an accident like this one – cutting down a tree on private property. We were ushered down the road as far away from the rightful owners faster than a Kardashian files for a divorce. (That’s my sole attempt at contemporary humor.)
Gone were the yipping dogs chasing gleeful children, gone was the sweet smell of hot apple cider, the cider turning into a sour brew; gone was the song in my heart; gone was that lousy Norman Rockwell, who years later I would be told “painted lies.” Stripped of our saw and our dignity, we hurried down the road with the tree, which was so large it wouldn’t fit into our Volkswagen bus, and had to be tied to the top, and even then a good three to four feet hung over the back-end. After a whopping $50 changed hands, along with the promise we’d never return, we headed down the mountain road to the long drive home. During the time it took to get home, I fumed about “how things can never be easy…just want to cut down our own tree…how hard is that…? I’ll admit there was a moment when I almost gave in to the reasoning behind my mother’s Christmas tree shopping.
Fortunately, by the time we got home I had calmed down… somewhat. I knew I would feel better once we got the tree inside and together decorated it with lights and ornaments. Just one little problem (see important fact above). Before we could even get the tree into the house we had to cut off almost four feet. Once inside the tree was so large and cumbersome we had to tether it with wires to the walls. So wide at the base, we had to inch our way around the tree and squeeze through the door to the bedroom. But after a few days, and more than a few hot buttered rums while retelling the story of our disastrous trip to the Christmas tree farm, and the ensuing laughter it garnered, I learned to laugh, too.
We kept our promise to the happy-go-lucky fellow and never returned to the mountains to cut down a tree, but we did keep up the family tradition of picking out the perfect tree together. And though Bill, Nate and I spend our Christmases far apart from each other, I can still see my chubby toddler in his lumberjack outfit, the sun shining down on him; I can still see Bill’s pride as he felled that tree, and my heart fills with a glad memory. Maybe Norman Rockwell didn’t paint lies after all. In fact, I know he didn’t. I have the pictures to prove it.
Oh, dear, I can see that sharp left turn I took led me down a long road. Next time I’ll tell you about “The Tree.”
Note: No trees were harmed for this post.
[…] A version of this story was originally published at Greetings From Coupeville […]