Acquiring the Tree

I’ve grown to love the indigenous Frasier firs that find their way into our home every December and dot the landscape of Western North Carolina throughout the rest of the year. Small family farms along rural roads boast rows of carefully tended trees in modest patches on steep slopes while large farms, their uniformly bold greens in various stages of growth, sweep up and over the hilly landscape. The children point out the sprinkling of “Christmas” trees on hikes in high elevations that bear the scars of hard winds and frigid temperatures pausing to imagine them adorned with lights.

We usually drive deep into Madison County on the weekend after Thanksgiving to a small, picturesque farm nestled beside a rushing stream at the bottom of the steep slope of a mountain. Amazed each time that we successfully retraced our annual tracks (always after a missed turn or two) we find the place as magical as it loomed in our memory throughout the year. Rob and Mary, donning heavy jackets and work gloves, emerge from the tiny log cabin and warmly greet us by name. The exuberant dogs that followed them from the house circle the cars ready to play. The caravan unloads: my parents are often with us and my brothers and their families sometimes follow behind. My brother, Kyle, and his family eagerly drive the four hours from Atlanta to drive two more hours to this farm – the place is that special. The children disappear into the familiar landscape, some to the rushing creek or to the small, wooden bridge that sits above it. Lise searches for a stick and begins playing with the dogs. Peanut, her favorite, receives more affection than the others when the retrieved sticks fall at her feet.

After catching up on the year and SEC football, the adults begin the gentle climb to the scattered trees along the slopes. Rob and Mary share an interest in fly fishing with Craig and we usually pause on the bridge to scout for trout and listen to detailed accounts of recent trips that often trigger memories of Craig’s similar experiences. One year Dad discovered that Rob lived in the same small town in Alabama that my parents lived when first married. We continually interrupted their tales of Enterprise -past to ask for the tall pvc pipe used to measure the trees or for assistance in felling the tree. Mary once pulled out her wreath making equipment and patiently guided the interested children and my sister-in-law, Julie, through the process. She showed the children where, on the property, they could find the holly and cedar that she weaves into the fir boughs for the wreaths.

Rob remembers that Craig and I like our Christmas trees tall and skinny and guides us to the more unkempt trees that are our favorites. The children eventually follow and the little ones get lost in the lower needled branches or in the dormant bramble of berry bushes often surprising and being surprised by rabbits. We leave birds’ nests, cheerfully discovered, in the tree and decorate around them, saving them on the mantle after Christmas as a reminder of our happy jaunt weeks after the tree is picked up by the recyclers.

This storybook place never disappoints. Once, we ignored our better judgment and risked icy roads to get to the farm during a heavy snowfall. Rob, waiting for us, helped the girls out of the car and onto a real sled with rudders (not the plastic kind that we use) and pulled them up slopes in pristine, untouched snow and ran alongside them with the dogs as they rushed down, the girls wide-eyed and laughing tiny puffs of smoke. Mary’s snow boots created a path toward the Christmas trees that Craig and I followed, awed by the depth of the mountains revealed by the snow’s presence as the bare trees on the distant rise created a 3 D affect with the contrasting white background. We lingered in the winter wonderland fantasy until, as the temperature began to drop, we remembered the roads and tied the naturally flocked tree onto the car and packed red-cheeked girls into the back seat. They waved long after the farm disappeared behind us.

The years revealed the future disappointment that would eventually befall on us. We began choosing trees that in previous years were overlooked. Rob cut for us the tops of trees too tall for anyone to want as the patch of trees that he and Mary carefully tended for years evolved into rows of stumps. We took hopeful glances at the opposite slope where the new saplings grew and asked again about the maturation rate of Frasier firs. Rob explained to Craig on the phone this year that they had nothing left of the old stand of trees and the new ones still needed to grow for a couple of years. Craig’s revelation left us feeling gloomy but not surprised.
None of my family even flirted with the idea of finding a new farm. We knew that other places would be anticlimactic and forever press a scarlet B (for betrayers) onto our breasts. Even my visiting brother’s family, after requesting a trip to the farm and receiving the devastating news, suggested a gas station parking lot as an appropriate alternative. We settled on the farmer’s market. The choice allowed us to patronize another local farm without the possibility of enjoying ourselves or not in its mountain setting.

And although our experience with the Yancey county farmer and his son proved easy and lovely, in typical Chenevert fashion, the bar sits high on its pedestal. It wasn’t until the tree stood in its corner of the living room, bright with lights and offering from its aromatic limbs the many ornaments we handcrafted over the years, did we fill with Christmas spirit and satisfaction. By the time Rem finished hanging and re-hanging ornaments and Miren and Lise carefully placed their favorites on the tree, Craig, as always, declared with conviction the tree our best tree ever. And with full hearts we all agreed.