The Day I Cut My Last Tree

It just seemed, yesterday, that with a sunrise like this one, it was going to be a day of good things. The December 6 snow still covered the landscape, glowing in the colors of the morning.

And so I ticked off the projects on my list. Walk on the treadmill: check. Do the wash: check. Get some groceries: check. Put together a care package for one of our students working in a Honduras orphanage this year: check. Get our Christmas tree:... well, I needed to get our Christmas tree.

Husband was busy studying; this was going to be a solo effort on my part. "How about an artificial tree?" I asked, hopefully. I heard the preacher quoted this weekend as saying that every fresh tree you bring in has 1000 bugs on it. Plus, one of my most traumatic moments was the first time I cut a Christmas tree, the year I lived in Finland. It seemed so wrong to cut down a living thing. I'm vegetarian, by the way, so this is all congruent for me. Except for cockroaches. I'll stomp one of those little guys flat in a moment. But I digress.

"The kids are coming home for Christmas," he said, "so let's get a real tree."

I groaned inwardly. Being the generally obedient sort (ahem!), I acquiesced to Husband's wishes. I flipped through the newspaper to find where trees might be sold. The usual places haven't been selling them--I don't know why. Perhaps our town has put a ban on selling Christmas trees? The paper told me I could find trees at two places: Klickers, and DeWitts tree farm. Klickers is on the other side of town. I couldn't quite tell from the directions where DeWitts was, so being the adventuresome sort, I hopped in the car and took off.I drove along with the little clipping from the newspaper in my right hand, referring to the directions. In a few minutes I found myself gaining elevation, headed straight for the Blue Mountains. They rose up blue-white out of the dormant wheat fields, carved by the streams that flow out of the canyons. Up and up I drove, following Cottonwood Road, and then taking a right down Foster road overlooking our valley. Soon I passed a small sign on the right: "Entering Oregon." The paving abruptly ended and I was on gravel.

I overshot the tree farm, missing the little sign by their driveway and following the road down into a canyon. The place was quiet, lined by fences here and there, these trees still bearing their snowy icing. I didn't meet one other driver out there.
Finally at this spot I turned around and headed back, finding the sign for DeWitt's where I'd missed it before. I pulled in by the dark red barn, stopping in front of the cardboard sign that said PARKING. The place looked deserted. I didn't see any trees leaning up against braces like they usually have in town.

Glancing around a bit, I saw a plastic curtain in the shed doorway move, and then a stocky chap of ruddy complexion stepped out with a welcoming smile. "Here for a tree?" he asked. I nodded. "You're welcome to go pick out your own and cut it, or I can help if you want."

Uh-oh. I would have to be part of doing the dastardly deed. There wasn't time to escape and drive to Klickers. "I need help," I said. "If that's OK with you."

We were soon clumping through six-inch deep snow--I in my walking tennies--up the hill through the tree farm, dodging long-needled branches laden with snow, looking for the perfect tree. This farm belonged to Stocky Chap's father-in-law, he told me. Some years ago he'd planted five thousand trees up here. He wanted a forest, plus he planned to sell some for Christmas trees. He certainly had gotten his forest. We wended our way up through the narrow rows, higher and higher.
Eventually we broke out into a younger patch of trees with more space between them. Over near the vineyard I spotted one that would do quite nicely. Stocky Chap revved up his little chain saw and I winced and looked away, but found myself looking back again. It was like watching something really horrible and not being able to avert my eyes as the saw bit into the trunk of the tree. Chips flew. The noise wasn't nearly loud or screechy enough to signify the awfulness of it. And then, in a shockingly short time considering the loss of it all, the tree was down.

We dragged the tree back down the hill through the forest to the little homestead. Stocky Chap remarked, "This is the stuff of Christmas memories." I smiled. Not mine, but I can see the charm of it for people who have gone forth as a family each year to pick out and cut their tree. A picture of triumphantly bringing home the tree and drinking hot apple cider came to mind.

Arriving back at the homestead, Stocky Chap measured it: nine feet. "Forty-five dollars," he said. He added, "There's coffee and hot chocolate in the shed if you want to warm up." He ducked past the plastic curtain into the shed to find some twine. Father-in-law had arrived from the house and helped Stocky Chap hoist the tree onto my faithful car (named Caleb, because it means "Bold," which my CRV is, especially in face of snow and ice).And so I drove back down the hill looking at the snow across the valley and the approaching darkness. Down Foster Road, down Cottonwood Road, and finally down home, where Husband and I went through the usual bothersome, somewhat contentious chore of getting the tree into the stand and adjusting it until it was finally straight.

This morning Husband remarked, "That tree is really drinking up water. It was almost gone when I refilled it before we went to bed last night." And again it had drunk all its water by this morning. It makes me sad, how it's acting alive when it's already been cut. It makes me sad that it won't stand on the hill again. I know Stocky Chap said, "Just think of it as a harvest," but I can't. I don't want to be a part of cutting down a living, healthy tree, ever again.