Shopping for Trees and Other Sundries

Although the states are small in size, tumbling in and out of each other at many points, New England collectively is large. Boston's metropolitan spread reaches beyond state lines.  Asheville, constrained by its topographically defined boundaries narrowed my field of vision both actually and mentally as I navigated places and sought opportunities and activities for myself and my family. Although the choices I faced did not feel limiting, they were limited and I sauntered through my days in Asheville with a more carefree bounce to my steps than I now do in Boston. Boston dabbles in a little bit of everything and everything presents one with innumerable choices. Narrowing the field provides a challenge to the most mundane activities.

Boston is a tale of many cities. It is old and older. It is a city with a proud, celebrated history of freedom seekers and justice fighters and a notorious past of a prevalent underworld and violent racism. The city boasts scenic harbor walks and charming historic neighborhoods amid industrial waste lands and abandoned, deteriorated buildings.  There is great affluence and excess and extensive poverty.  The weather is both mild and extreme (really, since I’ve been here, the weather has been fantastic but all of the locals throw out warnings of winter’s wrath like prophets of doom). Dense pockets of urban landscape are relieved by spacious parks.  Hilly rises overlook gritty beaches...  You get the point.

As I momentarily left the landscape of Boston public high schools to explore the possibilities in Christmas tree farms of New England, I found the process just as daunting, just as varied and just as complicated only with slightly less lifelong ramifications.  The websites of Christmas tree farm associations for each of the states listed mind-numbingly long lists of member farms.  I decided to stick with Massachusetts.  Now, many farms offer many things.  There are sleigh rides, bonfires, Santa visits, gift shops and cafes.  You can actually “tag” (reserve) your tree in the fall months and return to collect it in December.  Some farms are only open for one week-end in December.  Others are open until they run out of trees (noting that they could run out of trees by Sunday of their first week-end). Most farms don’t have many trees at ten feet or above.

I found a random farm that didn’t have a web-site, seemed small and as far as I could tell by the description and phone call, didn’t have any gimmicks.  We piled the kids in the van and let the GPS take us to Salisbury, MA.  The farm sat on the edge of a spread-out neighborhood, behind a rambling white farmhouse and barn and amid an assortment of sheds and abandoned farm equipment.  After warm greetings we were shown around the barn where the handsaws and carts waited. The simplicity of the farm proved a perfect fit for the Chenevert clan. Craig grabbed a saw, Rem jumped into the cart and we stepped into the marshy area where the grove of trees stood calling.

The weather was unseasonably (I’m told) warm and after a lovely afternoon picking out a tree we drove through Salisbury, a coastal town, and walked along the beach.  A beautiful blue fanned out above us and the ocean placidly stretched from the horizon toward us, voluptuously rolling and then crashing rhythmically at our feet.  Lise combed the beach for treasures while Rem stockpiled “fossils” and Miren and I created stories for the guy in the wetsuit gliding through the slick water standing on his surf board using his paddle like a pole-ing stick. Craig envied the group sitting quietly in chairs at the edge of the beach where the sand met the sea grasses.

The temperatures may be warm but the sun fades more and more quickly each afternoon.  These are the brightest of days, these are the darkest of days.

A Quiet but Thanks-filled Holiday

Thanksgiving Prelude

Our family will spend a quiet Thanksgiving this year that with only the five of us around our table. We are, however, all lovers of ritual and tradition and will be creating our usual menu of "must-haves" with a few substitutions. Craig must have a turkey stuffed with oyster dressing and after a few stops around town for ingredients he will get his desire. The kids, of course, don't eat oyster dressing and must have a secondary dressing, usually one made with crawfish. Alas, New Englanders do not share a fondness for the mud bugs. and our move cut us off from the trafficking routes of family members delivering such goods. The children will have to settle for shrimp or crab stuffing. 

Lise must have her sweet potato balls, certainly worth the lengthy preparation if anyone would eat them. Miren must have chocolate. Collectively, the group requires brown and serve rolls and can cranberry sauce to counter balance the butternut squash and apple salad and whatever other side dish I will prepare that will get snubbed without the benefit of guests to defend. I must have enough food to carry us through the entire week-end.  And so, I purchased the 22 pound turkey, I will make the two different dressings and I will re-serve those sweet potato balls until, tired of turkey-cranberry sandwiches, my crew eventually consumes a dinner that we won't want to be reminded of again until next year.

We are in New England for Thanksgiving and I thought we should introduce a regional dish to our table.

"What about Indian pudding? I asked the children.

"Absolutely not," one daughter retorted.  "No one would eat that."

"What about fluff?" the other daughter asked.  "Everyone eats fluff here.  Practically my whole class eats fluff sandwiches for lunch."

As far as I can tell, fluff is another name for marshmallow creme that enables you to eat it at will rather than just as an ingredient for fudge. Jars of fluff line the shelves everywhere, even at the convenient store in the yard. People must hate to run out of the stuff.

"I think we'll just stick with what we have," I tell them and start divvying up kitchen chores.

"I lick the spoons," Rem shouts.  He is forever shouting as though his voice only works at one volume setting.

"You can lick spoons," I tell him distractedly.

"I lick spoons until they're shiny.  You don't even have to wash them.  I am the dishwasher." (Mental note: Rem will be returning dirty utensils to the drawers.)

"I need you guys to come up with a nice blessing," I tell the children.  "This has been quite the year for us and we have a great deal to be thankful for. And come up with something to fill the two hours between when Papa tells us the turkey will be done and when it actually comes out of the oven."  Luckily, Rem serves as their puppet on such occasions and the three of them always entertain. Happily, we await the holiday.

New Englanders

Autumn, my favorite season, carried us quickly through the months of September and October with dazzling displays and fabulous weather interrupted  only briefly by a winter storm. Although many of the neighboring areas experienced power outages, downed trees and snow and ice, the storm brought us only a dusting of snow and an end to the brilliant crimson backdrop behind the house that had showcased a lush stand of Boston Ivy.  The maple out front is almost bare but the oak is reluctant to shed the reddish-brown leaves that gives such fullness to its tall stature.  Rem and I have spotted three hawks in the last couple of days and, like much of the urban wildlife we encounter, they seem unfazed by human proximity. Rem worked hard to shake the small tree by the park to get one hawk to fly so that we could see his wingspan. And the bird only flew to the next tree. One dad warned us about the squirrels this time of year as we witnessed an increased brazenness exhibited as squirrels jumped into momentarily neglected strollers and bags. Craig watched a squirrel devour a bagel while fending off other squirrels on his walk to work.

The kids enjoyed Charlestown's celebration of Halloween.  Rem basked in the attention as he marched in the parade and trick-or-treated through the neighborhood around Bunker Hill. Our neighbor led the girls expertly to the most generous houses and buildings in a shared candy-crazed quest to fill bags with sugar. My parents, as usual, were with us for most of October contributing to the whirlwind pace of passing time. Dad astutely recognized the anonymity factor still present for us here when, amid the Halloween throngs at the foot of the monument, he remarked that we didn't have to check our behavior because we wouldn't run into anyone we knew. But even Dad is slowly spreading roots into the New England soil. He recognized a costumed boy that Rem plays with at the park and could call him by name, is a "regular" at a neighborhood barber shop, and joked with the priest about particular athletes who are, unlike Brady, Saints (this, a New Orleans reaction to a homily directed at the children about the saints in their lives). A fisherman friend of a friend of Craig's provided the Cheneverts with fresh lobster yesterday morning and although we did use a little crab boil and couldn't help referring to them as really big crawfish, we felt very New England-like around the dining room table last night.

The children's routines, so similar to our life in Asheville (except for all of the driving), help us to feel increasingly at home in this foreign place. I do still waver in the favorite local road feature: the roundabout. I cannot cross the four or five lanes of traffic with the required local swagger and speed and I still look when moving from one lane to another on any street. And with the end of daylight savings time, I'm not sure of what to make of pitch-black darkness at five o'clock. By the looks of it, I'll have lots of evening time to ponder the affects of such short days.