Prickle Me Timbers

I donned a light, simple sweater and a colorful scarf. My husband, a light fleece and hiking shoes. His grandfather’s bow saw sat in the back seat as we drove to the Christmas tree farm at the base of Canoe Mountain. We took Water Street, one of my favorite local roads because of the rock cuts and river. The river snakes alongside the mountain and eventually Water Street gives way to open fields and hills.

Eventually, we reached route 22 and drove to the tree farm that sits beneath crackling power lines that extend up Canoe Mountain. We pulled into the tree farm, passing fields where small conifers pocked the fields, years away from being decked and adorned. The establishment itself sits atop a slope, overlooking the lay of earth. There were mounds of earth here and there, fenced off and craggy with small boulders from when the earth had been moved long ago to make way for farming. We stood atop the slope, figuring out which direction we’d go this year. All these years, my husband and I went left, parallel to the mountain, to find our tree. But from the looks of it, we needed to head straight toward Canoe Mountain where seemingly sizable trees stood.

I pointed to the top of Canoe Mountain where the tall electric pylons stood, holding the taut power lines. I’ve been up there, I said, reminiscing about climbing the switchbacks years ago. There’s an awesome rock up there. I should have brought it home when I had the chance. My husband laughed because we have enough rocks gathering dust inside our old house. I think about that rock probably once a week, I told him. To be honest, all I can remember about the rock is its approximate size and coloration. I wouldn’t be able to describe its composition. At this point, after five or so years, it’s like remembering a nice person you met on a trail and all you did was have a brief, pleasant conversation about the terrain before heading in opposite directions.

We moseyed around about a mile or so, approaching stands of trees that possessed the illusion of being seven feet tall but were barely five when we finally reached them. As we do, we fawned over the rejects, the trees with missing needles or big gaps at their bellies, as if they were lifting their skirts. Some were skeletal and lichenous. I had to stop sometimes when bowled over by the very nostalgic smell. I presume that most people with relatively happy Christmas memories have the same reaction. The first memory that unveiled itself was from when I was a child and we were tree shopping rather than tree hunting. Me, my mom, and dad went every year to a roadside stand of pre-cut trees. After selecting our tree, we always went into a small building or trailer next to it where I got a candy cane. For reasons I still do not know, this candy cane was more important than any other candy cane that was handed to me throughout the season. I can still imagine the inside of that dingy building. Its green carpeting was always wet because back then, there was often snow on the ground in early December. The fluorescent lighting was harsh compared to the exhaust-smelling darkness outside. Christmas music crackled from some unknown source. It was warm and I would stand awash in comfort as my parents dealt with the less magical transactional part of obtaining a tree.

In my gauzy, tinseled childhood, I did not think about ecology, waste, or habitat. They were not fir, pine, or spruce to me but instead soft, needly, or itchy. I did not spend evenings admiring the glowing tree wondering what lives it had served or how many rings I could count in its trunk. All it was, was symbol. Now that I participate in cutting down someone’s mostly abandoned home, I give silent thanks to the tree as the blade meets the heartwood.

After the sixth or seventh see that tree over there? we finally approached what would be our seventh Christmas tree, what I believe is a White Spruce. I pinched a bough only to be pinched back. Within a minute, a bright red hive rose on a knuckle. I don’t mind loving difficult things. As my husband eyed up the tree, I looked closely at the little pinecones, smaller than baby teeth. I looked at the needles which are tightly coiled leaves covered in wax. This allows the tree to conserve water and energy. Hence, they survive the harshest environments such as wind-pummeled mountain tops or soggy swamps. Some even thrive in fire, requiring the high temperatures from flames to open up the cones and release the seeds. The needles have little surface area so snow and ice can easily slip right off. Prickle me timbers! I said as my husband noted the sharpness of the needles. He laughed. That will be its name, he said. I took a picture of him with our new companion. Usually I hold the tree by its spine as he cuts it down but it felt like spring outside, so I didn’t bring gloves. Touching Prickle Me Timbers without protection had consequences so I stood aside, gazed at my husband, and thanked the tree that eventually made the inside of my car smell like Christmas with a hint of cat piss. The skin on my husband’s arms rose with hives.

The next day, we decorated. Tree decorating puts me in a liminal space between nostalgia and novelty. We put ornaments on the tree older than ourselves. For the first time this year, his great-grandmother’s bulbs don our tree and next to them are ornaments I had cherished all my life: the wooden cheerleader bear that when you pull a spring, she raises her arms and legs. There’s the bejeweled spider that always dazzled me and I never understood why my mother had it. She was never a spider person, let alone a creepy crawly person. But I am. And of course, we always pair up the ornaments containing pictures of us from childhood. But then there are the ornaments of the more recent past. Ornaments from our travels and experiences together. Shenandoah National Park. Frankenmuth, Michigan. Kinzua Bridge. Crater Lake. Vermont. Our wedding. I don’t want to say that I get sad when I see Christmas trees full of generic ornaments that lack meaning…but I get sad when I see Christmas trees full of generic ornaments that lack meaning.

And now I sit, the tree in front of me. All my life I have found comfort in bringing the outside inside. Always believing that I may do something with this leaf or that rock or those tiny pinecones, my dwelling spaces over the many years have become adorned by pocket-sized magic. Sometimes I’ll pause and admire the curve of a jaw bone on a book shelf. I often pick up the rocks, hold them, keeping them nearby. Technically illegal, various bird feathers stand erect with houseplants in their flower pots. There’s something especially odd, though, about deliberately killing a tree and adorning it with speckling lights as it actively dies. Older than dinosaurs, coniferous trees—to me—seem sacred, ancient. The term “evergreen” is used not just amongst the arborists, but in fashion, media, art, and the food industry. Always fresh. Always relevant. And I suppose that is true of our former Christmas trees, for as I walk the woodland border of our yard, I can see them on their backs. Pairs of eyes look back.