Gather Round - Oh Christmas Tree

Cutting my tree at a tree farm is a yearly tradition since the first year I stepped out of the truck at Marshall’s Tree Farm and was greeted by Mr. Edgar Marshall and more Christmas trees than I had ever seen in my entire life.  Or perhaps all the trees I have seen in my entire life – plucked from my memories and planted in two fields of fertile earth. 

“How many are there?” I had asked as Mr. Marshall handed me a saw. 

“You mean counting the little ones?”

“I mean how many I have to pick from,” I said trying to avert an O.C.D. hyperventilation.

“Ten thousand.” I felt weak in the knees.  So I did what had to be done—decided to choose one and choose one fast. I walked over to a Green Giant, just short of Rockefeller Center material – and stood by it, hoping to stay focused on its towering figure and not be distracted by the hundreds, the thousands of others that were…oh, no, off in the distance one caught my eye.  I walked toward it.  And before you could say partridge in a pear tree, I was sucked in.

“What time do you close?” I desperately asked Mr. Marshall at one point.

“Well, it gets dark in an hour or so.  What size do you want?”

“Big,” I drooled.  “Well, sort of big.  I mean, not too big.  What do you think?”

“Just walk around a little.”

I turned and walked back in.  The problem was I’d pick a tree and try to go find someone for a second opinion.  On my way to finding someone, I’d see another tree, and I’d suddenly forget where the first one was.  Or in what direction.  They all looked alike—at least until you got into serious evaluation of their features.

At one point, I got lost and couldn’t find my way anywhere, thinking tomorrow’s headline: MAN WITH SAW ON THE LOOSE. I started a new technique of hanging objects from trees I liked—my scarf, a piece of ribbon from my pocket, and a used tissue (sorry about that, I never found it again). 

Oh, and “Frank”, I found your tree—your weathered drugstore receipt was still stuck to the beautiful Frasier fir you picked that year or the year before.  But just so you know, since it had your name on it, I passed.

One woman was great at giving a quick, honest evaluation:  “Ugly.”  “Potential, but not this year.” “Not good for kids.”  “Sucks.”

I developed a great tree-hunting vocabulary:

Rust—the tree branch equivalent of age spots. 

Collared—neckline issues.

Tilter—needed chiropractic help earlier in life.

Dead—well, that one explains itself.

As it got darker, I got more frantic.  I brought out my Secret Weapon. 

“I know you are not taking Polaroids,” the woman laughed when she rounded a pine and caught me in the middle of getting a good angle on a fir.

“Yes, I’m taking Polaroids!” I confessed. 

But with that foolproof technique, I found the perfect tree.  Of course, it was in the hinterlands of Marshall’s.  Its capture went something like this: “Timber!”  Flop.  “Ouch!  Help!  Someone help me.  I’m trapped over here.”

But something about the magic has pulled me back every year since.

Santa says: “MERRY CHRISTMAS, AMERICA" should be in every stocking!”  Grab your copies before they run out – available at your local bookstore or through on-line retailers at www.brucelittlefield.com. 

            Next time, my FIVE STEPS TO A GORGEOUS TREE.