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.