Bring on the tree, and Christmas ~ December 13, 2001

David Heiller

It hit me in the early morning hours last Sunday that it was time. I had tossed and turned for a couple days over it, waking at about 4 a.m. and then not really falling asleep again.

Momentous decisions are like that, and this was a monster.

It was time to cut the Christmas tree.

Poor George Bailey
 eventually found his cheer.

I hadn’t been ready before Sunday morning. The spirit of Christmas was taking its own sweet time to arrive for me, as usual. I had grumped around the day before, as we dug out the decorations. Why do we have to go to all this fuss? What’s the big deal? George Bailey would have been proud.

Cutting the tree helped change that.

We always cut our own tree from the woods near our house. It’s not the same as going to a tree farm. Those trees are different. They are full and shapely. They could pose in the center-fold of TreeFarm Quarterly. Most important, they don’t lose their needles.

Our trees are regular trees. They look like your friends. Not perfect, but solid, and with a good heart. Maybe a little lumpy, and their hair thinning. That’s our tree.

Four-year-old Claire reminds us that even
 the most lop-sided tree can inspire dancing!

Timing is everything when you cut your own tree, because of the needle factor. If you cut your tree early, it can look pretty bare by Christmas. There is no worse sound than when you brush up to a fully decorated Christmas tree on Christmas Eve and hear needles tinkling to the floor by the hundreds. One wag of a happy dog’s tail can denude a tree like that. I speak from experience. Spruce trees are the worst.

Decisions, decisions!

These kinds of thoughts flickered in the dim dawn light on Sunday, until I sat up and announced the time had come.

A couple hours later, we headed into the woods: wife Cindy, son Noah, friend Kendra, and me. I had seen a good balsam tree last year, so we looked for it first. I thought it would jump out at me, The Perfect Tree, relatively speaking. But it didn’t. I might have spied it, but it didn’t look any better, just another year older (like those friends I mentioned earlier). We kept walking, through thick brush, over deer trails, looking at this tree and that.

Our back woods trees were generally quite nice. 
A hole? A good place the the bigger decorations!
A flat spot? Oh yay! It will slide closer to the wall!
The needles ALL fall off in the first week? 
Well, it  makes for a good fire-side tale anyway!

“We could cut the top off that one.”

“It’s too thin. How about that one?”

“It’s got a big hole in the middle.”

“That one isn’t bad.”

“It isn’t good either.”

Finally Kendra spotted a nice one. She called us over. We circled it warily. It would do just fine. But it wasn’t quite right.

We kept moving, eyeing dozens of more trees. None came close to Kendra’s.

Then I spied the winner. It’s funny how you know something is right when you see it. That was how I felt. I called the other jurors over, and they agreed. It had that extra special look, as symmetrical and full as a balsam tree in the wilds of northern Pine County can be. And it was right next to the logging road, so we wouldn’t have to drag it through the thick brush.

Noah and Grace: under the tree, a pleasant place to be.

Then I spied the winner. It’s funny how you know something is right when you see it. That was how I felt. I called the other jurors over, and they agreed. It had that extra special look, as symmetrical and full as a balsam tree in the wilds of northern Pine County can be. And it was right next to the logging road, so we wouldn’t have to drag it through the thick brush.

I cut it down, using an old cross-cut saw that only gets used for this occasion. I felt a pang of regret cutting the tree, but it passed like the wind. There is no shortage of trees in our woods, and this tree would not go to waste in the spiritual sense. Quite the contrary. It will enrich our Christmas, just as it did our lives last Sunday morning when we cut it.

Noah, Cindy, and I carried it in, while Kendra carried the saw. The sun shone on the ground that was sprinkled with frost. The woods were sparse and brown, yet with a special beauty that only comes this time of year. Cindy pointed out an old maple tree that had partially fallen down several years ago. It used to be the best maple tree for giving sap, Cindy told Kendra. It succumbed to old age, and I cut it up for firewood. Waste not, want not.

When we got to the house, our simple job was over. I wished it could have lasted longer. We had missed church because of it, but we had gained a beautiful tree, and something less tangible but just as valuable.

The spirit of Christmas had returned for me. It’s all downhill from here.