How Wonder and Conflict Distort my Memories of the Annual Cutting of the Tree

Reflections on a rural ritual that took place during the holiday season in 1980s Wisconsin

“C’mon kids, we’re going to get the Christmas tree!” Dad yelled, and Kip and the other kids cried “Hooray!”

Kip was the childhood name of a different person who would grow up to write this story.

Mom only smiled and quietly put on her coat.

The kids in their winter clothing, and Dad in his wool pants and wool jacket, saw in hand, headed out the door. The saw was so sharp it needed a plastic cover for the blade.

Into the Suburban, breath making clouds, Dad quietly cursed as he fiddled with the key. Remote start was yet a thing of the future and the kids sat huddling together for warmth.

The engine roared and the journey began, slow at first because it was dangerous to navigate the winding roads of the driveway. Trees and ice made the passage treacherous, plus you had to keep your eye out for Danny the horse who had free rein of the countryside.

That day, Danny must have been bedded down for she didn’t appear.

The rusty old truck emerged onto the county roads which had been plowed and salted overnight. Then the vehicle picked up speed and rattled like a space ship clearing a planet’s atmosphere.

Dad hit the dips in the road hard and Kip and his brother and sister would bounce up and hit their heads against the ceiling.

“Faster?” Dad asked half in mischief half in threat.

“Yes, faster!”

“Faster?”

“Yes!”

Kip screamed ‘yes’ because you never screamed ‘no,’ just like you never admitted to being tired even if you were on the verge of collapse, and you never turned down another slice of cake even if you felt like you were going to be sick.

“You’re going too fast!” Mom said.

But Dad had that glint in his eyes, the good glint, the one with no hint of the stranger’s face. His foot came down upon the pedal a little more and they hit the dip so hard all four tires left the Earth.

The kids bounced off the ceiling again and landed in the seat behind where they had started. The Suburban hit the road sideways and skidded into a fishtail. Dad went suddenly serious, spinning madly on the wheel to get the car back under control as it slid out of control, eventually slamming into the snowbank.

Everyone sat silent for a moment. Then Dad gave a great barking laugh.

“Good thing there was nobody coming!”

Mom glared.

Dad put the car in reverse.

“Let’s have some music!”

Fiddling with the dial he found Rudolph, and the kids sang along as the Suburban made its way to the Christmas tree farm, now traveling about five miles an hour below the posted speed limit.

The farm was a plot of land with a small hut at the center. At their arrival, an old man emerged from the hut with a curious expression on his face. He seemed almost disgusted, as if he couldn’t conceive of why anyone would come and visit him at his Christmas tree farm just a few weeks before Christmas.

He wore rubber galoshes, which, to Kip, always indicated borderline insanity since galoshes didn’t have any insulation against the cold. The man trotted up, his whiskers hitting the driver’s side window four steps before his hand touched the door. Dad worked the crank to drop the glass.

“Can I help you?”

“We need a tree.”

“Hooray!” went the kids.

The whiskered man scowled. “Cut your own?”

“Yeah.”

“Twenty-five bucks.”

Dad grumbled but he paid. Then the whiskered man nodded in the direction of the road. “Go that way.”

Dad shrugged and kicked the suburban into drive.

The path could hardly be called a road. It consisted of a semi-clear trail through a field filled with dips and ruts. The Suburban moved along like a crawling feline. The corners lifted and dropped at random angles and the kids were thrown against each other to giggle.

“Ugh, I feel sick,” Mom said.

The kids began looking out the windows.

“How about those trees Dad? There’s a good one.”

Dad glanced back and his expression told Kip not to press the issue.

“No, those are Spruce and White Pine. Who ever heard of using Spruce or White Pine for a Christmas tree? We need Balsam.”

So they continued on, the Suburban listing and yawing but never quite capsizing, and eventually they came to a section of Balsam trees.

Dad parked the Suburban and left it running, and Mom and the kids tumbled out of the car to stomp through the knee deep snow. They marched, passing hundreds of perfectly acceptable trees purportedly because they were less than perfect, but really because the experience needed to be prolonged.

“How about this one?”

“Too fat!”

“How about this one?”

“Too thin!”

“How about this one?”

“Not full enough.”

“How about this one?”

“Too full.”

And then, finally, they found it, surrounded by a halo of light, emerging from the ground, the perfect height, width and color.

“That’s the one!”

“Does everybody agree?”

Usually somebody had an objection, but that person was shushed into silence.

“Great, it’s unanimous!” Dad would say, and he pulled the plastic sheath from his sharp saw, and dropped down on his back getting snow on his wool jacket. Then he’d scuttle under the tree and begin sawing away at the base, leaving a few branches connected to the stump so that they might turn upright and grow another tree.

The tree fell, and Dad dragged it huffing and puffing like the times he emerged victorious from the dark wood with the carcass of a white tail deer.

By the time the tree was tied to the roof, everyone had begun to crash from all the work and excitement. They drove back along the path, a long drive because of the bad surface, the car rolling and bouncing. Then they made the driveway’s end and turned onto the county roads where they could go faster, all the way until they were back at the long winding driveway that signaled home.

Dad began to smile, and then a great brown shape emerged from behind a tree and dove across the roof of the car, clipping the hood with an errant hoof.

“Was that Rudolph!” Kip cried in excitement.

“No, it’s that damn horse!” Dad replied, slamming on the brakes, swerving and swearing.

Into the ditch they went again, but the vehicle had four-wheel drive so they were soon out.

At the house, the kids tumbled out of the car and walked rather than ran to the front door.

“Take your clothing off in the entryway!” Mom admonished.

She didn’t want them tracking snow all over. There’s nothing worse than stepping on a patch of melted snow in stocking feet.

Dad pulled the tree into the entryway.

“Can we set it up now dad?”

“No, it’s all wet with snow and ice,” Dad replied. “It has to thaw overnight first.”

So they left the tree, propped against the closet door, dripping onto the floor, leaving needles on the ground. The first thing to enjoy was the smell. That sharp, almost mint smell of a freshly cut pine. Kip would walk by, close his eyes, and take deep breaths through his nose.

Years later he would be able to touch a pine tree and bring his hand close to his nose and recall images of Christmas. Not just the smell of the tree, but also the wood paneling on the walls of his house, the shape of the steps, the color of the doors, the way the hallway into the living room stretched off into darkness.

All these physical things would change with time, the family would move, Kip would grow, the dynamics between them would evolve. But the memories, locked in and activated with the smell of fresh cut Balsam, reminded Kip of kindness and endured.

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