My husband’s favorite holiday tradition is to gather the whole family together for a Christmas tree hunt. I pack sandwiches and hot chocolate, and we all overdress and pack our sweaty selves into several vehicles. Then we drive into the hills until we reach the snow line. In the event of a no-snow winter, we press on until we find the coldest rain on the planet. Icy winds of 30-plus mph make conditions absolutely perfect.
Parking trucks and cars on the edge of a precipice, we hike into the woods in search of something to hack down. For the uninitiated, let me assure you, those chubby, symmetrical trees you see in parking lots do not occur in nature. Trees left to their own devices tend to cluster together, resulting in three or four trees with at least one bare side each. No doubt, this is a survival technique which has evolved to protect Douglas and noble firs from certain extinction. What it means to our family is a series of Charlie Brown Christmases.
We trudge ever upward through snow and mud, passing perfectly good three-sided trees, until at last it happens — I decide I’m frozen enough to accept whatever nature provides. “That one looks good to me,” I say, waving vaguely toward the forest. “Start the execution.”
Out come the saws and axes, and the men get down to manly fun. A tree is roped, tied and wrestled into submission within a matter of minutes. Meanwhile, I’ve retreated to the warmth of Detroit’s finest heater. Too bad it’s inside a truck teetering on the brink of my certain extinction. Oh, well, the frozen can’t afford to be choosy.
Before long, my son joins me, huffing and puffing through an inevitable asthma attack brought on by altitude and a rare burst of physical exertion. There we sit, shivering and wheezing, until the mighty hunters haul their prey off the mountain. The tree is cast into the back of the pickup and tagged with orange markers, making it legally ours — for better or worse. A tree that looked tiny amid forest giants suddenly grows to fill the truck bed. By the time we reach home, it will have stretched another 2 feet. A rule of thumb: 6 feet in the woods, 8 in the truck, 10 feet on the porch, 12 in the house. And that’s just the width.
The porch is where man really conquers nature. All those lower limbs that had to be removed when the tree was cut to size are grafted back on to fill in bald spots. Grafting means drilling, gluing and wiring. Some years, our tree contains so much baling wire, it leans magnetic north. That’s OK, as long as we can tuck the worst side into a corner and cover the wire with tinsel garlands.
The next obstacle is forcing an 8-inch trunk into a 6-inch tree holder. Once the tree is safely in its stand, it has to be dragged into the house. Forcing a full-grown tree through an average-sized front door resembles sausage being loaded into its casing. Somehow the tree squeaks though with only minor damage to the delicate grafts and a heavy shower of needles. Once down, each individual needle attaches itself to carpet fibers in hope of defying the vacuum cleaner. Some of the more tenacious needles remain part of the decor until well into spring.
At last the tree is in place, usually leaning forward like a kid doing the hokeypokey. After several attempts to stand it up straight, I nod my approval and man’s work is done. Now woman must begin the task of stringing lights and hanging ornaments on flimsy branches. Allowing the glue adequate drying time is essential to successful ornament placement. If the branches are really flimsy, it’s time to drag out those Q-tip and glitter ornaments the kids made in preschool. Besides, the glitter looks good nestled with the needles embedded in the carpet.
After two or three days, the job is finished. House lights are doused and tree lights glisten. Voila! It’s Christmas!
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