Strolling through the mall the other day, I got a whiff of my childhood. Bustling along, focused on errands, the rich, sweet, pine aroma of a Christmas tree filled my nostrils, teasing me back to the Santa Cruz Mountains.
Growing up in California, we never had white Christmases. Our Christmas looked pretty much like any other day. We children, in our constant hunger for snow, never understood why it didn’t snow. Without the horse- drawn sleighs depicted on Christmas cards, we had to resort to other methods to get into the holiday mood.
To start the season, our family would cut down our Christmas tree. This was a big deal to us. On a Saturday morning, we eagerly bundled up in warm coats.
We drove through the hills and up into the mountains. We never stopped at the first Christmas tree farm, for we wanted to drag out the fun as long as possible. Finally we would somehow, just know, that this tree farm was the right place.
I remember the fragrance that would appear as we piled out of the car. I found myself breathing the earthiness of the world, the fresh, crisp air of the mountains that stung my nose. It was so cold we could see our breath just like on the Christmas cards on the fireplace mantel back home.
Off we marched through the trees. The scent was so fresh, foreign to a city girl. The trees were beautiful, full and ripe- ready to be cut.
When you hunt for a Christmas tree, you don’t want to find that perfect tree too soon; searching is half the fun. To make it last you walk, stop and admire the tree. You find one that you like and leave a little sister to stand guard while you continue to look in case there is a better one. Of course, there always is. After much tromping and discussion, we would agree and my father and brother would start sawing.
The saw would release a fresh wood smell and someone always hollered “Timber!” Half dragging, half carrying the tree, we felt smug because we knew we had the perfect tree. We were so proud of our tree, you would think we had given birth to it.
While Dad and brother hefted the tree onto the car, Mom poured hot chocolate from a thermos she had brought. The steam of the cocoa would rise with our breaths, making the forest look almost magical.
Back down the mountain was bitter sweet. We wouldn’t make that pilgrimage for another year. However, we looked forward to decorating the tree with all manner of ornaments. We laughed, threw tinsel at each other and then admired, content that we had the perfect tree.
Holiday memories are special. Think about those memories you have from your childhood or memories you created now. May your memories bring you sweet happiness and a resolve to never forget the charming things in our lives
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Beautifully written – I can picture the story before my eyes.
Sounds like a lot of work!
I love your description. It almost makes me want to try this…but I’m too chicken to go out in below freezing temperatures for a Christmas tree.