In my McPherson family, going out to the mountains to get our Christmas tree was always an adventure. The photograph above was taken on a much later Christmas tree trek up the Dead Indian Hi-way on a snowy December day with grandkids in tow.
I believe my Dad made annual treks for the Christmas tree before the State started to require permits for cutting down the tree. He loved Christmas. Later, Mother would usually be tasked with the job of getting the permit for cutting the tree and the gathering of stuff for the outing; lots of extra mittens and socks, blankets, hot chocolate, sandwiches, cookies, lots of cookies, and all of the necessities that made outing fun for my sister, brothers and me. Daddy took care of the implements for cutting the tree and fastening it on the car.
My sister, brothers and I continued this tradition for many years, though I have to say that rarely were our Christmas trees as lovely as the trees in the photo above. Usually there was one side that HAD to be situated against the wall or in a corner. Later on known as Charlie Brown trees. We did have a lovely tree when our older daughter was almost a year old. The photo below doesn't do justice to my memory, but it was a large tree and took up a good part of our front room. However, when our younger daughter, the climbing child, was a year old,
our Christmas tree was quickly dismantled and reassembled on a table.
Years later, Doc and I and the children were in Pullman, Washington, while Doc was getting his DVM degree. We put together a Christmas tree outing for some of our vet student friends and their wives and girlfriends, you know, the friends that lived in southern California cities, Arizona, place where you go to the tree lot for your Christmas tree. I wrote a story about that adventure and am placing in this post.
A Christmas Love Story
Standing in line at the district's Forest Ranger's office, my three friends, also wives of 2nd year students at the university's college of veterinary medicine, were a'quiver.
Paula from the Arizona desert fairly bounced as she confided to anyone within 10 feet, “I've never been in the snow before.” On lookers smiled and some actually guffawed, as there was nearly 16” of packed snow all over campus and the Palouse hills and valleys.
Sara who hailed from a small fishing town south of Seattle, snorted, “O Paula, look outside. Snow. You mean that you have never gone Christmas treeing in the snow before.”
Ginny, who had come from the suburbs of Los Angeles nodded. “Neither have I – doesn't snow much at my home – and no Christmas trees close by – except off of trucks parked in big open lots.”
Doc and I had grown up with huge family treks to the mountains to cut our own perfect tree --- at least, usually there was at least one perfect side – and maybe two if we were lucky. “It'll be fun,” I said as we picked up our permits.
Clouds blowing in from the northwest mottled the blue-gray sky, but did not hamper the excitement of leaving the university campus for an adventure. Over the past week, we had been making preparations. The guys gathered axes, saws, and ropes; and the four of us friends set out warm clothes, sleeping bags (just in case) and made banana nut breads and cookies. On Saturday morning we stowed in the cars all of the tools, picnic baskets full of fruit, cookies, breads and sandwiches, and thermos bottles of coffee and hot chocolate.
An hour later, with the rolling wheat fields far behind, we parked along side the dirt road the Forest Service mark as the Christmas tree cutting area. Car doors sprang open and we burst out into the cold invigorating air. Jackets, scarves, hats were quickly dug out of the cars. I shook my head. Paula's lovely dressy leather jacket was great for movies and going downtown --- but it was rather skimpy for trudging around on this hillside.
Sara brought out heavy Norwegian sweaters and caps – gifts from her husband's family n Norway; Ginny wore one of her husband's cast off stadium coats with UCLA Bear logo. After lacing up our snow boots, Doc and I shrugged into our down jackets, stuffed gloves into our pockets. We also brought out a backpack of extra gloves, hats, dry socks.
When everyone was coated up, our little band spread out through the heavily forested but gentle slopes of the mountain. Quickly we were all out of sight of one another looking for our own perfect tree. By the time the first tiny snowflakes started drifting down, the hillside was ringing with the calls of the other couples. “Paula, where are you?” “Sara, are you still behind me?” “Ginny, I can't see you, where are you?” Then the rather like a mating call, the answers came back, “Over here.” As the snow came down faster and the afternoon sun waning, the hillside reverberated with calls even more frantic calls of our friends. “Calls to Paul, Sara, and Ginny, but never did I hear did I hear my name.
By the time snow was starting to come down in earnest, we had all returned to our cars. After the last tree had been strapped to the last car, we snacked on sandwiches, banana nut bread, cookies, apples, raisins and nuts, and warmed our hands around cups of hot chocolate and coffee. Then, into the warm cars for the drive back to the university.
The sun was dipping behind the mountains as we headed home. I sat stiffly beside Doc. He seemed perfectly happy. I was not. Finally, I petulantly asked, “You never called my name to see if I was alright. Didn't seem like you cared about me – not like the other guys cared for their wives.”
He looked across at me, shook his head and said, “I don’t have to call for you. I know which rocks are you are going to pick up and bring home; I know the kind of plants you like; I even know where you found the sugar pine cones that you carried down the mountain. There is never time that I can’t walk right to where you are. I always know where you are. I always will.”
Years would pass before I realized that this was a most unique and wonderful love story. Now more than six decades later, those words and the love story were still true.
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Happy Christmas Tree in the mountains, in the lots, in the stores. T'is the season.
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