by Chris Burroughs
‘Twas the coldest day of the year in a long ago year. The three boys were quite young and excited by the snow. Their father was determined that it was a great day to head to the Christmas Tree Farm “somewhere” in Kentucky . . . a part of the state which had at least one hundred tree farms but only one with “the good “ trees. It supposedly had lots of trees, acres of evergreens. We found the place after a few hours. The guys working at the tree farm gave us a handsaw. It didn’t look very sharp. A bit rusty. Splintery handle. We hoped it would do the job. We started at the lowest part of the hill and determined that the newer, smaller trees were there. The children complained that those were soooo small. I complained that it was toooo cold to go much further. But, we trudged on. And on.
Toby, our middle son, found a baby tree and joked that this could be “the one.” Looked good to me. All 18 inches of it. Dad shrugged and said that we could find something better that that one. So on we went, examining dozens of potentials.
Too short.
Too spindly.
Too crooked.
Trunk too thick.
Trunk rather thin.
Open spaces in the front.
And on the back side, as well.
Dropped its needles.
Top leaned over.
Top had no point.
“Twiggely.”
Loser.
So many didn’t pass the test. So, we walked on. And on. Up. Up to the skyline, it seemed. The view from the top of the hill might have been worth it if we had been able to turn our frozen bodies around to lift our chins. We could only move stiffly like robots. The youngest boy was crying. Maybe I should take him to the car. You know, with the engine running, the heater blasting, our most beautiful car, our salvation from frostbite or worse.
No. No. Our tree suddenly appeared right in front of us. We all agreed that it looked perfect. The older boys and their Dad took turns sawing. And sawing. Damn saw was worthless. A guy on a snowmobile drove up with a chainsaw and ZIP ZOOM . . . down came our tree. Our perfect holiday tree. Not spindly or crooked. Trunk seemed right. No open spaces. Live bird nest. It had everything we hoped for. A bit tall, though. The older boys and their father dragged it down the hillside. I carried the youngest child. My back was breaking from his hefty 35 pounds, and miles to go down the hillside.
Another family was hoofing up the hill toward the elusive skyline. A youngster of six years or so tugged on his mother’s coat and said, ”It is, Mom! It’s the tree for the library.” It was then that I worried about our choice.
We made it down the steep hill. The workers at the tree farm kindly secured the tree to the roof of our station wagon. Off we drove, hoping to find our home before morning. Within minutes, we had the car heater warmed above freezing. We turned it on full blast. The youngest boy fell asleep. The older two discussed what kind of birds lived in the tree and what would they feed them at home. I thought – please, dear God, no worms in my refrigerator or crickets in the cheese drawer.
Well, we made it home. As the tree was unloaded, some neighbors gathered around. Some snickered. Some backed away. Some were speechless. After the tree broke the frame of our home’s front door and busted the storm door off its hinges, it was in. We only had to cut four feet off in order to get it upright. It was tied to the stair banister as insurance against a tumble. At that stage of the game, who cared if the top had no point, or that the birds flew their nest, or that the trunk would not fit in the tree stand. It was OUR TREE. It was the BIG ONE. Yes, indeedy, the Big One.
Oh, by the way, we kept it up until Easter.
Image source: https://tinyurl.com/5cbm4ee and https://tinyurl.com/3e9ne7yv