A City Slicker's Guide
to Getting a Christmas Tree
by Lynne Kamm
For the past two years I have enjoyed the politically incorrect real Christmas tree. I figure I have to make up for lost time. The smell of pine or spruce in the home still dazzles me. It is different from my mother’s snow spayed seventies dust collector. It somehow feels more Chritmasy. I enjoy running my hands over the needles, watching them fall and then cursing the clean up. This year I went as far as to chop down my own tree and it seemed like a great idea at the time.
Christmas with my family was always devoid of any religious context. Christmas meant taking the time to spend with family and friends, and centered around the traditional dishes and baking, passed down from generation to generation, It’s been about giving, smiles, laughter and the warmth of love. It’s been about lights and decorating.
I was ill every Christmas growing up and I often lay down on the couch with fevered brow and watched the trimming of the tree. Artificial ones only, since I was allergic to anything from the mother earth. I would be hoisted from my position to place the angel atop the highest bow. It was the first born's birthright to place the angel. " An angel made in my image", my mother would say. Now the holidays are mine and I carry with me my favorite images from my youth and I form my own traditions.
An hours drive from Vancouver is the town of Squamish, official Christmas
tree cutting territory in British Columbia. A simple permit filled out at the
BC Forestry Commission and you have, at zero cost, the right to chop down a
tree per family. Armed with a hatchet and a saw, a friend and I, drove north.
I could feel the excitement building as trucks and mini vans past us in the
opposite direction with trees strapped to their roofs. I felt like a true Canadian,
for today I am a lumberjack and I’m okay.
I’m also the biggest idiot city slicker. Working in the film industry I am used to clothes for harsh weather conditions and my wardrobe is laced with gortex socks, three ply rain pants and a pair, from the now defunct company, snow boots; Sorels. I, however in my pending excitement of the slaughter, did not wear them. Instead I was wearing a pair of jeans and practical hiking sneakers. No snow in Vancouver but Squamish was waist high in the white stuff. Did this deter me? No, I am a trooper and I was going to cut down my first tree.
A word to the wise: when cutting down a tree take the path most traveled. Those who have been there to cut down before you, know best. We foraged off the main path often, slogging through the brush to find the perfect evergreen. Snow and ice melted in my shoes and soon I enjoyed the pleasant feeling of wet socks and semi-frozen denim against the skin. I was wearing my toque and gloves- a mantra I repeated to myself over and over again on the trek to create the illusion of warmth.
An hour later we finally spotted a little tree suitable for a small apartment. We chopped and sawed. The trick of a fast cut is to be able to hit the hatchet on the same spot, a technique that I was unable to master and the poor tree was dented with marks. We examined our first attempt. It looked like a good tree when in the upright position. Now upon second inspection it was a rather pathetic specimen not even worthy of Linus’s famous line: all it needs is a little love. This tree was hopeless, wet and discouraged we dragged it up to the main path and moved on.
My enthusiasm for the process had waned. Following the path up hill, all I could think of was the easy purchase of a fifty-dollar tree at my local hardware store. A nice hot toddy and a pair of dry socks danced in my head. We passed two gentlemen dragging trees that composers would write carols for. Our poor anorexic tree we had left on the path was pathetic in comparison. "Three hundred yards up, then cross the path up the ravine", they said sounding like a bad Berenstein Bear routine. Three football fields- no problem.
My teeth were chattering and I wished I hadn’t drunk so much wine last night. Just a little nap in the snow- what harm is that? It started to snow. Not a little light dusting but huge white flakes caught on the tongues of the young. They poured down my back. Toque- I am wearing a warm toque.
I didn’t feel my left leg by the time we made it to the ravine. I slipped climbing and slid a distance on my bottom before stopping myself on a rock. Nothing like the comforting feeling of wet underwear to add to the mix of my emotions.
Upon the first rise we spotted them. Two bushy spruces worthy of my mother’s crystal ornaments. We feverishly went to work cutting and chopping for this was no longer a Christmas spirit activity but a point of pride and survival.
"Hold this branch back", my friend asked, and I watched in amazement as she precisely hit the same spot with the ax. I watched intently. I watched closely as a large wood chip flew up and hit me directly in the eye. Pain seared as I pulled the splintered chip out. The world was now hazy from a scratched cornea but it was too late to stop. We chopped down the second tree and dragged our kill down the slope. I felt primal, like a hunter after his kill. Success, at last.
The surface most easily walked is the path of least resistance. It’s a rather long walk back through knee high snow when you are dragging a seven-foot high tree behind you. Darkness fell and I began to wonder if I had matches on me- it might be necessary to set a rescue fire. I wanted to cry but my eye was burning with resin. I removed my now soaked mittens to keep from freezing my fingers. The pine needles pierced my hands and they bled.
Finally like the heavens had opened up, we saw the car. I quickly strapped the trees down and we drove off. I had lived. I had lived through the experience of cutting down my very own Christmas tree. I am Canadian, hear me roar.
The road was blurry and I closed my eyes to keep from fighting to focus. And I slept. I don’t remember bringing my tree inside my apartment, nor do I remember decorating it for that matter. I think I was hypothermic.
The next morning I awoke to a rash on both my hands, extending up my arm to my elbows that burned like a forest fire. I had reacted to the pricking of the needles. Guess I am still allergic to trees. I walked into the living room plastered with anti-biotic cream and calamine lotion and saw her. A lush green Christmas tree with boughs laden with shimmering ornaments collected over a lifetime. I turned on the lights, lay gently down on my couch and admired her beauty.
Next year, I am buying one.
Contact Lynne Kamm at 5a7@avivalasvegas.com. Make sure to put Lynne Kamm in the subject.
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