Tree tales

The wrinkled wrapping paper is piled on top of beer cans and flyers in the recycling bin.

My sister has piled her gifts into the trunk of her car, and hauled them over icy mountain passes, to return to the world of payrolls and grocery shopping.

The dishes that used to be full of tarts and cheeses are now reduced to carrying crumbs.

My head has already turned to more pragmatic matters such as scheduling.

But, to the right of me still stands the Christmas tree, draped with lights and childhood crafts made out of glue guns and pine cones. It reminds me that even though the 25th may have come and gone, I don't need to take my head out of the clouds just yet. There is plenty of time for worries and practicalities in the new year. 

***

Obtaining our Christmas tree often proves to be a bit of an adventure. The tradition since we moved to HomeTown has been to procure a license from the city to cut down a tree on Crown Land that falls beneath the power lines. This provides a nice compromise for my environmentally conscious family, who are against both the chemicals in fake trees and the unnecessary chopping down of real ones, as it means we are merely cutting down a tree that is soon to be cut by the city anyways.

This year was good for a few giggles, in that the area had been doused with a particularly heavy bout of wetter than usual snow.

This means that the godforsaken winter boots that were forced upon us in childhood, which my parents are quick to fish out of the enormous trunk of plaid scarves and single mittens, are pulled onto our feet, with our pants tucked into them.

Residents of the more snow-familiar areas also know that wet snow and cold nights mean the forming of a crust on top of the snow. While this crust may keep your feet from sinking too far into the white depths as you scamper down a snowbank to scope the perfect tree, it certainly will not as you attempt to haul said tree out of the snow bank. Each step led to several rounds of sinking, eventually to snow-levels nearing my hips, which is great fun when tenuously grasping a douglas fir. Even the mighty Sorel couldn't stop snow from gathering in every possible crevice.

However, in years past, my father and I have managed to narrowly escape more trouble than quicksand-like snow.

Recently, due to reduced time, both in terms of daylight and days until Christmas, Dad had the bright idea to raid the edge of local forested park, which was decorated by trees with outstretched branches nearly intermingling with electricity-infused wires.

While he saw it as a practical and responsible option, we realized that the average person may not necessarily see raiding trees from the park in the same way.

As such, we cut down our Christmas tree ninja style.

For those who aren't familiar with the ancient ninja art of tree cutting, it involves one person serving as the eyes of the operation, and the other as the sawer. It also involves skulking behind trees, parking a minivan in wooded areas, and propping up a chopped down tree to make it appear to still be standing tall if there is a little too much action on the road below.

However, nothing beats the year prior. Again, Dad and I had been delegated the tree chopping task, and decided to investigate a different route. We found a particularly lush area beneath the power lines, pulled over on a side road, and selected a suitable tree. As we had just finished chopping it down, and were in the process of strapping it to the van's roof with an array of bungee cords, a car appeared coming in our direction down the side road, and an angry looking man jumped out.

Turns out what we'd assumed was Crown Land was in fact his land.

Turns out Dad had never actually gotten a permit from the city this year, as we'd never been asked to provide one in the many years prior, and he had to apply both powerful bluffing and mediating skills to calm the man down.

However, after we extracted ourselves from the situation unscathed, we decided to make the most of the awkwardness. As such, we greeted my occasionally gullible mother not only with a freshly cut tree, but with tales of an angry farmer who took a swing at the van with his shovel, and of an ensuing car chase. Her reaction was nearly worth the conflict in the first place.

So Christmas trees mean a lot to me. They symbolize family rituals and hijinks, as well as childhood memories. And, in times where the real world threatens even my bubble in the mountains, it reminds me that it is okay for me to stay in my pajamas a little longer.