The Freelance Retort: A Tree Waits in the Woods

Our annual Christmas Tree hunt went well this year…as usual, as one would expect.

I mean, why would one expect that it wouldn’t?

Unless one is listening to two, who clearly has an agenda and has been plotting with three for years to turn the whole Christmas Tree thing on its pointy little head.

But it’s not gonna happen. One is much too smart, let alone perceptive, to allow oneself to be manipulated by the likes of two, with or without three.

So it went as planned.

The same plan Z and I have been employing for the past 14 tree trips.

The last 3, of which, have been chronicled on these pages.

Because to chronicle them on some other pages would be presumptuous, at best…and possibly something altogether illegal, at worst….especially if three got involved.

One thing we didn't plan on was the rainy forecast...but we decided to go for it, anyway, despite the dire predictions.

Z prepared a nice hearty Woodsman breakfast, as she does every year on Tree Day…and once the Woodsman was done I was able to make myself a waffle.

The Woodsman, as is his Woodsman way, of course, drank all the coffee and the OJ so I had to content myself with an open can of diet coke, I found under the sink, next to the Brillo pads.

Hey, I wasn’t about to complain; at least there was a waffle left. Besides, Woodsmen routinely require a hearty breakfast, on most days, let alone Tree Day.

Afterwards, once all our tummies were filled and December’s sleep rubbed from our eyes, along with the near-winter chill that had permeated the house—mostly because the Woodsman, left the door open when he let himself in, earlier that morning—we wrapped ourselves in snuggled layers, set to take on the northern chill...except for the Woodsman who was dressed in that inappropriate Woodsman way of a mere red flannel shirt, forearms exposed to the ripping wind, and a silly little wool cap attached to the top of his head.

Show off....

All he needed was the Ox to complete the Paul Bunyan routine, but—much to the Woodsman’s dismay—I put my foot down on that a few years back because the Ox took up too much room in the back of the Hyundai, which made storing the tree, for the return trip, difficult…not to mention that one year the Ox ate a good portion of the trees nether region, which made for an unusually squat looking…and disgruntled tree, since even a tree is self-conscious about its shape…apparently.

Anyway, once we arrived at our woodsy destination, we made the long muddy trek to the top of the hill to commence our search. In years past, we would avail ourselves of the festive hay wagon provided for both customer convenience and yuletide ambience to make the climb…but the Woodsman was banned from the Hay Wagon a few seasons back, for reasons better left to another time, preferably when the lawyers are available.

As I’ve said in the past, Z and I are very meticulous when it comes to our Christmas Tree hunting and have been known to scour the fields—all the fields—well after we’ve found what we perceive to be the perfect specimen. Hey, you never know what might be waiting, just around the corner unless you venture onward—just as in life—unless it’s that corner where that creepy guy with the broken bell and smelly Santa outfit stands berating people to open up their “cheapskate wallets” and give to the needy, to which you’re happy to do, but resent the fact that he mocks your driver’s license photo and the Dolly Parton montage that means so much to you.

By this time, Z and I are on our own anyway as the Woodsman, who becomes easily distracted, wandered off the farm and into the deep woods, long ago, in search of who knows what.

As always, our perseverance pays off, when eventually, the whole Tao of Tree thing kicks in and before we know it we find ourselves facing the only tree that was meant for us that year. The single tree that destiny, and a guy named Marty, had planted years before, pre-ordained to fill our living room with happiness and joy in 2014.

A tree with our very name weaved within its very needles, over the years, just waiting, patiently, for us to arrive and claim it as our own.

All true, except, according to the tag that some newbie treebie had attached to it, weeks before, the name on it was actually Rowan, which held no significance to a seasoned tree hunter as myself, because, according to the natural law, “pre-tagging” has no place in the Tao of Tree hunt. The only thing that matters is the swiftness of the Woodsman and sharpness of the blade.

And since, as usual, when it comes time to cut, the Woodsman is no place to be found, down on my belly I go and slowly but surely the Rowan—I mean our—tree comes down.

Carted, roped and stored in the Hyundai Hatch… hands warmed by the fire, doughnuts and hot chocolate consumed…another successful Christmas Tree adventure complete.

Soon, the music of Christmas fills our Korean carriage as well as our hearts…which is good because it makes it much more difficult to hear the sounds of the Rowan’s and the Woodsman chasing us down the quaint, country lane and halfway to the highway.

And from these, the things of Holiday Magic are made….

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