I started this Christmas post the day after Thanksgiving. In
many places in the world, autumn is sunny and warm, the first hint of fall
colours painting the trees in red and gold. Not in Canada. Here in so-called
“sunny Southern Alberta”, this was the scene that greeted me when I woke up
this morning.Yes, that’s right. Heavy snow with more falling, and no end in
sight. But rather than bemoaning the tragedy of Canadian seasons –
Winter-Is-Coming, Winter, Second Winter, and Road Construction – I decided to
write about what I love about the snowy time of year:
Christmas!
My favorite memory of Christmastime is from early childhood.
Each December our family would head out to the mountains to find a tree, a
tradition that lasted until I was in my teens. I recall my father driving up
winding backroads to the best “Christmas tree spot”, an open slope on the
westward side where pine trees could get enough sunlight to be lush, but were
protected enough to be sturdy and straight. The group of us: my mother and father,
brother, sister and I, would bundle ourselves up in hats, gloves and boots,
then set off to find that year’s perfect tree.
In movies, it seems easy to climb a snow-covered hill, but
the truth is, hiking through snow is slow-going, sweaty work. You’re either too
cold from the inclement temperature or too hot from exertion. Snow melts on
your hat and slush falls down your neck. You can barely move from all the
layers. Searching for a tree, my legs would tire and my toes would get cold. My
enthusiasm would wane. I’d find every excuse to stop as we hiked what felt like
forever. And then finally we’d find “the right tree”.
My father would let us kids chop it down. In my memory, the
axe was always too heavy, and in the end, he did most the work, but the effort
was what mattered. The scent of sap and pine needles, stuck to woolen mittens,
is a smell that takes me back. When we were done our turn at pummeling the
bark, Dad would take over, and the tree would be down in seconds. Success! My
father would tie a rope to the trunk of the tree, and the kids would start to
pull.
If getting up the mountain was hard, going downhill – three
unruly children with a tree in tow – was twice the ordeal. The bound tree
either went down sideways on its own trajectory or refused to budge at all,
caught on a snarl of brush or embedded in a snowbank like an arrow. I remember
my mother laughing as we tried to get it going. Sometimes one of us would climb
on top and try to “ride” the Christmas tree down the hill back to our vehicle.
(That never worked.) But it didn’t stop us from trying.
Eventually one or both of our parents came to our rescue.
The tree was hauled back to the road by adult hands and the three of us kids
watched as my father and mother tied it to the roof with a complicated web of
rope. Then came the long drive home as we slowly defrosted in the backseat, the
tree bouncing merrily atop us. The sky was never as dark, the stars never so
bright as in my memories of Christmastime, and the sweet sound of carols was a
fitting soundtrack.
Reaching the city and our house, we’d head inside, and my
mother would set out our sopping clothes to dry before bundling us into
pyjamas. The last tradition of that night was always a mug of hot chocolate in
front of the fire. I’d want to decorate the tree immediately, but my parents
would always insist the Christmas tree had to “defrost” in the porch for the
night, or the needles would fall off. (As an adult, I now realize this is just
adult-speak for “I’ve been out in the woods with three little kids and I’m too
tired to deal with this right now”, but in my childhood, that statement held a
magical warning.)
Cup in hand, I’d sneak into the porch to check on the
branches. The smell of damp wool, taste of cocoa and mingled scent of pine and
home are forever woven into my memory.
The adventure of chopping down a Christmas tree
is the pinnacle of many wonderful Christmas events I recall from those long-ago
years. In it family, laughter, and fun are bound into one.
