To Tree or not to Tree: the Search for Perfection in the Valley…

“Christmas is just a hardship on a body,”my paternal Grandpa Mike used to grouch this time of the year. That sentiment was lost upon his grandchildren because we were children after all and Christmas to us was all glory, excitement, anticipation. It was our kid’s day of entitlement; our birthdays paled in comparison. 

When my wife and I were first married and lived in Seattle, we thought Grandpa Mike needed a little Christmas in his life and brought him and Grandma a small tree, table-top sized. Our intentions and the tree were noble enough, but in the years since we’ve discussed the likelihood that our holiday gesture probably was tossed in the trash by the time we returned to our apartment that evening. Short of a visitation by a ghost and three spirits in the night, you just can’t force Christmas “on a body.”

And I’ll have to admit that as the Christmas pasts pile up, the holiday has lost some of its glitter for me as well. I have often thought about Grandpa Mike’s December antagonism and wondered how it came to pass. My bet is a large part of it was rooted in that Christmas icon, the family Christmas tree.

When you see tree after tree whiz by on the tops of cars (this year I saw the first green victim the day before Thanksgiving), the pressure is on and mounts by the day. There’s no way around it. December is here. Best get it done.

Perhaps it’s the decision making I dread: select a cut tree or fell one yourself? Head for Freddie’s or a tree farm? Tradition in our household has so far precluded the decision on“real or plastic.”(I see Jim Werkhoven has made his decision. As I pedaled past his place the other day, I noticed a nice looking aluminum tree in the window.  Just wonderin,’ Jim, do you have one of those revolving color wheels for nighttime illumination?) And the same holds true for the variety of tree. What fir fer us? Douglas, always. It’s a fair weather day, so I head for Reiners’ tree farm at the south-east end of the Lewis Street Bridge. One decision down.

Dale Reiner has propagated Christmas trees on the site for a number of years. I meet up with him at the sales center which consists of a trailer and a refreshments tent. My task this year is finding a house-sized tree. Two years ago when I was here, most of the trees in the north lot were too large. When you select a tree, you also need to factor in the “wide open spaces”effect: out in nature a tree looks smaller than it really is. Nothing like a living room space to take the full measure of a tree. I ask Dale about the younger lot south of the road. “Well, we didn’t shear them this year,” he says, “Didn’t think we could market them, so we spared the expense. But you can find a good tree out there. I’m selling ‘em for ten bucks apiece unshorn.” More decision-making: sheared or natural? This one’s a bit trickier. Our last “au natural” tree came from Kurt’s Vegetable Stand and proved to be a disaster in fir clothing. Its trunk, we discovered when we went to set it in the stand, was shaped like a lightning bolt. Our scoliosis tree we called it, and so a merry scoliosis Christmas it was. Do I want to revisit that scenario? But ten bucks a tree…hmmm. Guess where I’m headed!

And it’s a jungle out there, those unshorn fir, and I’m supposed to choose a winner from this forest? This is the most critical time in the process: selecting just the perfect tree from an entire woods. As if there weren’t enough variables to consider, there’s the paramount one: the approval of the Missus of the house. Here’s where the male of the household is most vulnerable: aesthetics and symmetry seem beyond the masculine jurisdiction. A friend of mine, caught up in the spirit of the season and being a husband of magnanimity in a moment of weakness went out unassisted, chose a tree, purchased it, and carried it home in triumph. His efforts were rewarded by his wife’s terse comments (not verbatim, but you get the idea): “Out, out, out with it! I’m not having that ugly brute in this house!!!” And out it went post haste and my friend hit the Christmas tree trail once again—this time his wife was leading the way.Thus was born a long standing family joke. “Could we come over and see the ‘tree of the week?’” Yes, every year it must be the perfect tree. Anything less and Christmas is in jeopardy. In Truman Capote’s heartwarming memoir “The Christmas Story” young Capote (Buddy) and his Aunt Sook go to the woods and select the perfect tree. On their way home a couple of uppity women in a fine car pull along side and offer them twenty-five Depression era cents for their tree. Miss Sook replies, “Why I wouldn’t take a dollar for this tree!” “A dollar!” the woman exclaims, “fifty cents, my last offer. Goodness, woman, you can get another one.” Miss Sook’s response: “I doubt it. There’s never two of anything.”

Miss Sook was right. I wander through the tree lot, trying to avoid the craters left from trees removed for landscaping (I don’t always succeed) and each tree is different. The sun is low on the horizon, and if I walk south, the trees are just silhouettes; I have to backtrack through the lot, sun at my back, to see each prospect clearly. It’s a sun dazed one dimensional perspective, at best. That old phrase, “Can’t see the trees for the forest,” must have been coined in exasperation by a Christmas tree hunter.

 

I wander back and forth through the lot, scour row after row.  

 

 

 

 

 

In the center of the lot I am swallowed up by  the heady fragrance of the fir; I’m just a stranger lost in the forest. After an hour or so of threading my way through the trees, some begin to look familiar: “You again?” they seem to say.

At last from the forest a tree speaks to me. This may be the one. Dare I hope? Looks good from the other side, too, don’t you think? Success of the season turns on my decision, so I circle the tree two or three times—clockwise—push aside the branches and this time peer in at the trunk to check for any curvatures of the spine. Counterclockwise two or three times, and finally to seal the deal, shear off the prize with the complimentary Reiner Tree Farms buck saw.

I drag my green trophy to the truck and wrestle it into the bed. Don’t know…looks pretty big.That’s a whole lot of tree for ten bucks, I think, and head to the “sales department” to settle up with Dale. “What do I owe you?” I asked. The size of the tree may have ramped up the price. But Dale proves true to his word: “Ten bucks”is the firm quote. But I have another idea. Whenever we meet—one businessman to another-- Dale asks me how the honey business is. “Would you take a quart of honey for the tree?” I offer. “You got yourself a deal,” he smiles. A great barter is one that satisfies both parties. 

 

If you’re in the market for fresh tree, I encourage you to visit the Reiner tree farm. Not only are Dale’s prices reasonable; they’re probably the best deal in the Valley. (Most certainly if you have something to barter.) A jaunt to Reiner’s tree lot is a great way to enjoy the fresh Valley air, get some exercise, and either continue a family tradition or begin one. After you’ve honed your decision-making skills afield, stop by the refreshments tent for refreshments and help yourselves: hot coffee for you; hot cocoa and cookies for the kiddos. Now when the house cools at night, the tree’s woodsy fragrance greets us in the morning. So much nicer than the smell of an aluminum pie tin or the non smell of a plastic tree. Fir or plastic: what’s the decision there? The best Christmas tree ever, in my opinion, glows warmly in our living room. And I found it myself—unassisted—the most perfect tree in the whole of Reiners’ lot, in the world perhaps. Perfect, yes indeed… for you know, there’s never two of anything.

 

 

 

Take a Little Off the Top…If You Can Reach It…

This time of the year as I visit the Valley, I can’t help but notice the various stages of dishevelment the Valley’s fruit trees present. The dormant, defoliated apple trees display themselves as an unruly bunch of customers. Some have become an entire forest unto themselves, a dense confusion of twigs and branches. When Jonathan Chapman cast his apple pips about the countryside, I wonder if he gave any thought to the management of his efforts once they sprouted.

I was raised on an apple orchard and participated in just about every facet of apple horticulture that comes to mind. The annual pruning of the orchard was an important routine; every tree in the entire acreage received a yearly haircut. In those days the orchard amounted to nearly 300 acres and not a single tree was neglected; each received its designated winter trimming. In mid-November the pruning crews converged on the rows of trees, and for the next three or four months we cut and trimmed for five and a half days a week.

My first recollection of pruning concerns the old standard red delicious variety of apple. These trees were huge, much like the specimens in our Valley. My very first victim was a day’s project. I climbed up into its branches in the morning, came down for lunch, and clambered up into its limbs again in the afternoon. If memory serves, pruning that first tree took me nearly the entire day. Thank goodness those old apple patriarchs were the last of their race.

For some strange reason I’ve had in mind to try my hand at pickling crabapples, so the other day I planted a bare root crabapple tree out back. After I dug the hole and added a couple shovelfuls of compost, I positioned the tree so the bud union cleared ground level by a good two inches and watered it in with a gallon of water/fish fertilizer solution. As I puttered and fussed over this lone little sapling, I thought about how shaping and pruning a fruit tree begins the moment it’s planted.

There are several reasons to employ a regular pruning regimen with your fruit trees, not the least of which is to prove who is to be master—man or the tree. For one, pruning promotes better fruit quality and quantity: opening up the center of the tree allows greater exposure to sunlight, coloring and ripening the fruit evenly; annual pruning  also leads to a consistent crop year after year instead of a bumper crop one year, a barren tree the next.  Secondly, pruning a tree helps shape it, insuring greater ease of pruning from one year to the next. Pruning also keeps the height manageable, prevents the tree from climbing into the heavens like Jack’s beanstalk. On the opposite end of the tree, proper pruning keeps the branches high enough from the ground so they won’t slap your hat from your head when you mow beneath it.

The height issue I addressed when I selected my “Calloway Crab M-7.” The “M-7” designation means my tree has been grafted onto a semi-dwarf rootstock which when pruning time rolls around means I won’t have to rent a bucket lift to prune the topmost branches. Dwarf fruit trees, depending on pruning styles, vary in height from 6-10 feet; semi-dwarves from 16 to 20. According to One Green World, from which I purchased my tree, the Calloway will be in the 6’ to 10’ range. Fine with me: a twenty foot crabapple would most certainly exhaust my pickling powers. For better maintenance and containment, I recommend the prospective backyard orchardist select dwarf rootstock whenever possible.

FYI: pruning of fruit trees begins at planting time. Once my Calloway Crabapple was firmly seated in the ground, I made my first pruning cut by snipping eight inches from the tip of the tree. Lopping off the terminal tip of the new sapling accomplishes two things: the tree’s energy is diverted to the roots, encouraging root development, thus establishing a strong root system; nipping the terminal tip will force side branching, the point at which the gardener can begin shaping his tree. Off with its head: eight inches… cut just above a fat bud. It is advisable to stake the tree, too—especially here in our windy Valley. Once the tree establishes a sturdy root system and a straight trunk, the stake can be removed.

A well-shaped tree produces higher quality fruit and makes the task of pruning much easier. The end result is to create a tree that has only three or four “leaders,” the main limbs that branch from the trunk. Depending on the side branches, it may take a few pruning seasons to achieve this end. Patience is the key here. Because the shaping  takes place over a few years, don’t prune a young tree too heavily. To open up the tree’s center, it may be necessary to “spread” the branches. A piece of lath notched at both ends and cut to size serves this purpose well. Larger limbs can be pulled into the desired position by wiring the bent limb to a sturdy stake, forcing it away from the center of the tree. (Man’s the master here, right?) A note of caution: bare wire around a branch will girdle it; thread the wire through a section of nylon tubing or old garden hose and position this buffer at the tension point around the limb.

As with any job, proper tools make it easier. Most pruning tasks can be accomplished with a long handled pair of loppers (the long handles allow for greater leverage to cut larger branches), a  pruning pole for a higher reach, a pruning saw, also on a long handle, and a sturdy hand-held saw. Oh…and a three-point orchard ladder for those tippy-top branches you’ve given free rein by skipping a couple years of pruning (shame on you!) These tools should be sufficient if pruning is done regularly. Reserve chainsaw work for rotting or diseased leaders—or if you’ve been out of town for a dozen years and left your trees to fend for themselves.

When it comes time for you and your tree to square off (you still have time but don’t wait much longer; the sap is starting to flow), consider following these steps: cut or snap off barehanded those frisky water sprouts (in orchardist parlance “suckers”) that bristle up the back of big limbs and leaders during the growing season. If these are lopped off, two more will appear in their place next season, so snapping them off is best if possible. After a half dozen years a node will develop and the suckers sprout from it like hairs from a mole. At this point, remove the node with a saw to avoid having to snip numerous individual suckers every season.

If you have large cuts to make—rotten or diseased leaders, thick limbs—make them next. Drooping limbs can be stiffened up by cutting them back (be sure to cut just ahead of a bud, especially if it’s a fruiting bud). Do the same with the vertical branches. Doing this will slow upward growth while at the same time promoting side branching and more fruiting wood. To allow more sunlight to reach the fruit, branches that overlie each other should either be cut back or one of the two cut off entirely. Over time these “crossover” limbs create a small jungle and will turn your tree into an unruly customer and come picking time create a barrier between you and your harvest.

After you have pruned your way around the tree, take a few steps back and check your work. Walk the perimeter for another perspective. I guarantee you’ll head back into the fray to snip another branch or two, do a bit more twig tweaking. If you have doubts whether to cut a branch or leave it, let it  rest until next year. The tree’s not going anywhere, after all, and if the branch needs to be removed, one more year will make it that more obvious. Pruning is not a a precise art. There comes a point, however, when you need to lay down your weapons and just walk away.

Perhaps you’ll never be a master gardener, a grandmaster at chess, a master chef or even a master of ceremonies. But when it comes to that fruit tree of yours, you can certainly show it who’s the master of the place.

Tree Hugging...

There was a match found for me at last. I fell in love with a scrub oak. 
                                       Henry David Thoreau


I willingly confess to so great a partiality for trees as tempts me to respect a man in exact proportion to his respect for them.
                        James Russell Lowell

The best time to plant a tree: twenty years ago. Or today....

Countless times over the years I have driven past this stately giant. I like to call it my favorite tree. Regardless if you're headed either east or west, the tree is hard to miss. It towers above the vine maple and other roadside shrubbery, majestic, mast-like, a tree my two brothers, loggers in another life would have called "a big stick." Most likely the tree was impressive at the time of my birth and barring some cataclysmic wildfire or, heaven forbid, timber sale, it will be standing long after I have passed on.

Pinus ponderosa, my pine tree. One could not find a more perfect specimen among forests of its kind; you might say it is a Pinus in the classic style. The tree stands on the north side of Highway 2 between east bound mileposts 87-88 some fifty feet off the shoulder. At milepost 87 the highway curves beneath a railroad overpass, my cue to look for the tree's familiar spire. Beyond the curve the highway straightens and I see my tree, its trunk plumb bob straight, signature bark furrowed and creviced. "Ah, there you are, old friend," I think and if I'm not driving, I take in the welcome view as we pass, crane my neck for one last look to watch the pine fade from view.

The noble Ponderosa is the tree of the West, the American frontier, so archetypally western that a fictional ranch in a T.V. series bears its name. Old growth Ponderosas are immune to wildfires as their branches grow far above the understory ladder vegetation that fuels fires. The tree's thick bark renders it nearly fireproof, subject to a superficial scorching only as the fire burns about its feet. Native Americans use its tri-cluster needles in basket making. When a breeze sifts through a pine grove, the needles become musical instruments, fragrant aeolian harps, that sigh the ancient song of the Ponderosa.

To my favorite pine: let me share some recollections and memories. In my Boy Scout days I used your sap as a fire starter. Thanks. The fragrance of sunbaked pine duff on a hot summer day brings to mind childhood and the school bus trips to July swimming lessons, windows down, pine scented air wafting through the bus, cooling our hot faces. Apples in my boyhood days were freighted from the field in pine boxes, boxes I tediously repaired for two cents apiece during summers. The box sides came from the mill in bundles, twenty or so strapped with a wire band. I'd pop the band with my box hatchet, releasing the fragrant odor of fresh milled pine, the sawdust still damp between the boards. You gave us winter firewood, too, slabwood sawed to square the logs and cut in fireplace lengths, hauled by Mumma's Trucking and dumped in a pile next to the yard. We burned it green, fresh from the summer's harvest at Martha's Mill. Winters I pried many a frozen slab out of the snow covered pile and laid it by the hearth to warm.

One late spring when the river was in flood a monstrous ponderosa saw log escaped upriver and drifted by our riverbank. I secured it with a rope and after the waters receded, the log took up residence on the bank, lay there for two or three years. Periodically when I had frustrations to vent or felt the need for exercise, I'd take my maternal grandfather's hefty single bit ax, his legacy to me, and lay into that big log, make the chips fly. Each year I'd deepen the notch a couple of inches, perhaps nearly a foot of log chopped away. One spring when the river was on the rise, I untethered the log and let the rising waters carry it downriver, out of my life, our time together represented by that shallow, random notch.

And my old dairyman woodworker neighbor was laid to rest in a pine casket, handcrafted by its occupant during healthier times, preparing for the end game he knew must inevitably come.

H.D. Thoreau during his experiment in simplicity and bean farming at Walden Pond reported in winter he "...tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech tree, or yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines...." Yet year after year I've passed that majestic conifer, never once stopping to introduce myself, make the tree's acquaintance up close and personal.

We pull over on the shoulder where a wide spot awaits as if it were a convenience stop for tourists visiting an historic site, which for me, I guess it is. I cross the road, camera in hand, for our first meeting, an historic event for us both.

I make my way down the shoulder and thrash about through the tangle of vine maple and brush until I'm within arm's reach of my tree's iconic trunk. While the pine doesn't seem to mind the commotion, a snowshoe hare, mottled, in transition from winter's garb to summer's, though definitely curious at my presence, decides that discretion is the better part of valor and darts down a bunny trail, leaving just the tree and me to ourselves.

In addition to the camera I have brought along a tape measure to record the tree's circumference, the extent of my foray into dendrology. When I was a boy, my fifth grade class visited a logging camp where a forester demonstrated how to determine the age of a tree by using an increment borer. The tool enables the dendrologist to remove a core from the tree. The rings in the core reveal the tree's age. An increment borer is not among the few tools I own and besides, on this, our first date, how rude to poke a hole in the tree's belly. About chest level I tack a small nail into the thick bark, hook the end loop of the tape measure over it, and slowly unspool the tape as I walk around the bole. Back to the nail where I mark the measurement on the tape: circumference 133.5." Approximately eleven feet around, my pine. How tall the tree is I have no idea. When I gaze up the trunk, the top is hidden by the high branches, hard to estimate its height. Of a tree's length Abraham Lincoln said, "A tree is best measured when it's down." It is my sincere hope this old growth giant is never measured in my lifetime.

If Thoreau could fall in love with an oak tree, I reasoned, why couldn't I be smitten likewise with a Ponderosa pine? Not sure my affection for the old pine is true love, but I'm not ashamed to admit I did throw social distancing to the winds and gave the old pine a hearty hug.

Stalking the Wily Christmas Tree: From the Archives…

There are those difficult decisions one has to make in life. And then there’s choosing just the right Christmas tree to steer the household through the Christmas season. Last year I selected the perfect tree from Dale Reiner’s Christmas arboretum. Armed with the formidable knowledge that “there’s never two of anything,” off I ventured to attempt the impossible.

It is not easy to arrive at the appropriate mindset necessary to search for that important Christmas icon. I had intended to begin this year’s quest a month earlier, call Dale and ask if I could wander through his inventory, select and tag a tree for harvest later. That never happened, and I’m sure you’re not surprised:we defer life’s difficult decisions as long as possible.

Now I’m up against an inflexible timeline…family coming for the holidays…the pressure’s on for me to provide, provide…. But as I drive up to Reiner’s command center, I discover the lot is closed! “Open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday” the sign reads. Today is Wednesday. Who knows if I’ll even be among the living two days from now, let alone having to “get in the mood” for tree shopping again. Mumbling a few words, none in keeping with the Christmas spirit, I head back up the driveway. But just then Father Christmas smiles on me; here comes Dale in his white utility truck. He’s about to pass me by but a depleted honey jar at home jogs his memory: here’s next year’s supply about to drive off. Dale stops, backs up.

“Reiner,” I complain, “How can you make any money when your operation is closed?” (Forgetting the while that I’ve been absent from the workforce for eleven years and every day is a weekend for me.) Dale explains there’s not much demand for U-Cut trees midweek, but since I’m here, and he’s come to feed his cows, he agrees to let me have the run of the place, select a tree, and either tag it for later or haul it off today. Soon I’m armed with a bow saw heading off to do battle with a forest of fir while Dale chucks hay at his hungry beef.

Douglas fir can spurt three to five feet of growth per season, and these trees were already tall last year. Now as soon as I enter the grove, the trees shut out the winter light. I feel much like Lewis and Clark must have felt when they explored the Pacific Northwest. (But then they had a trail to follow, didn’t they? Or was it a trail they blazed?) Where the branches were shaded, ice droplets on the needles from last night’s frost sprinkled ice water on me. Once into the forest, squeezing my way between the spitting trees, I have trouble distinguishing one tree from the next. I spot one promising prospect after another but think there’s sure to be a better one a few trees further and push on. When I do, I lose track of my last prime candidate. At last I find just the right tree and am about to take the saw to it when just in time I realize what I’m about to cut is a giant bull thistle.

As I continue thrashing about, tripping over stumps of the deceased and stumbling into potholes, I remember my parting words to Dale: “If my pickup is still here two days from now, come looking for me, will you; I still should be pretty well preserved.” Dale replied, “You know, only two types of folks visit the tree farm: old timers like you and me who continue the tradition of selecting and cutting down their own trees, and young couples with children wishing to start their own Christmas tradition.”As Dale’s words echo, fade away, my memory rushes back across the years. 

Late December, 1969. Winthrop, Washington. My first year of teaching. Three or four p.m. on a snow-covered hillside above the Chewuck River. We had our one dollar tree permit, a carpenter’s saw, and most importantly, the spirit and energy of youth. And that’s what we needed to trudge upslope through shin deep snow in the dwindling light to search among the towering Ponderosa pines for that perfect fir tree. Even youthful exuberance and stamina were challenged by the vast wilderness, encroaching darkness, towering pines and slippery upslope. The firs, seeded by a few intruders, were scattered among the Ponderosa. Whenever we found a young fir, we cast a critical eye over it until at last the impending darkness forced a choice (or was it, perhaps, the fresh set of cougar tracks we had crossed earlier?). Among the massive trunks of pine our little fir appeared a dwarf, hardly more than a smudge against the snowy hillside.

Snow had begun to fall and in the glooming twilight a few easy swipes of the saw brought the little fir down. We half dragged, half rolled our prize to the road where our red VW beetle hunkered in the unplowed snow. When the tree came to rest beside the car, it was obvious our little “sapling” was not only longer than the car, but also taller. In fact if you stood on the tree side of the car, its beetle top was barely visible above the branches.Without the cathedral pines and the vastness of the countryside to trim its scale, the tree had appeared only in miniature. Now alongside the VW our tree seemed almost a grove. We wrestled it to the roof of the little red car, tied trunk to rear bumper, tip to the front and started home. The snow swirled in the headlights, and we could hardly see the road for the forest. Feeling like we were at the helm of a log truck, we rolled slowly along the unplowed road.

We returned home tired—as if we had worked a day in the woods—only to confront another challenge: our little Christmas tree would hardly fit through the front door of the house. Unless we did some serious trimming of branches and cutting of trunk, we would have to decorate our Christmas icon in the horizontal orientation like a beached whale. I went to work with the carpenter’s saw to fit the tree to living room proportions. Even when we were able to stand it upright, there wasn’t enough headroom for either angel or star. But we were young and poor, had no furniture to speak of other than a king size bed; the house was rented; and that tree filled up the small living room, made it bright, made it cozy. Who needed furniture with a house brimful of woodsy fragrance and the Christmas spirit!

Years come and years go and Christmas trees with them; however, some stand out in memory, unique in some way, special (like our Charlie Brown twisted scoliosis tree of years ago), but that Christmas and the Winthrop tree, the tree that blanketed a car and filled a house, bring a pleasant wash of memory this time of year…and so….

It’s a nice tree I select from Reiner’s forest, worth every ounce of honey in the quart jar I’ve exchanged for it. The only challenge now, once the tree is in the stand, is finding a place to display it. Elbowing a spot for the tree amidst all the furniture, it seems, becomes more challenging each year .   

A Forest of Memories...

The other day while rummaging through a folder of odds and ends, articles, newspaper clippings, and various print curiosities I've salted away over the years, I happened upon a cartoon. It works upon a familiar theme of cartoonists: two castaways on a desert isle, and as is the case with my discovery, a husband and wife. Barefoot and disheveled, the couple are wiling away their time on a small bulge of sand barely above sea level. Waves nibble at the tideline nearly licking their toes. Remnants of a doomed vessel, the "SS Banana": life rings, an oar, partial skeleton of hull litter the fringes of the tiny sandpile. A starfish (plus a distant pair of seabirds) are the only other visible life. The husband, peppered with beard, is roasting a fish over a small fire as if it were a marshmallow. Sprawled behind him like the hag of the sea, his missus (given her portly figure, it's obvious the seafood diet has yet to take effect) has her own priorities: "It will soon be Christmas," she says, "When are you going to get a tree?"

Aside from the desert isle scenario, hers is a question much on our minds this time of the year, and it prompted me to ask my missus if the tree of the season wasn't our fifty-second. "The fifty-third," she replied. "Our first Christmas tree was in my apartment, the one we shared after we were married." I had forgotten. Ah, yes, betrothed we were when we enjoyed that first tree. Nine days after Christmas we were married.

I think of them now, those Christmas trees.... Fifty-three Douglas firs, always Doug fir, our holiday icon of choice. Today, had they remained rooted in the soil of their planting, not severed and dragged indoors, the lot of them would make a small forest, a teeming ecosystem, fir-fragrant cover for forest animals and birds, a quiet sanctum in which the pensive hiker could escape the tumult of the world. But for our fifty-three that was not to be. They were destined to become a forest of another sort, a forest of memories.

There was that tree I purchased from a lot and carried several blocks to our Seattle apartment to make amends over a falling out we had about Christmas, its stress, and our tight budget. And then that tree whose trunk a lightning bolt would have been hard pressed to trace--our "scoliosis Christmas tree" we called it. We've had trees so tall they scraped the vaulted ceiling of our rec room, had to be wired to the wall to prevent toppling. And there were trees whose needles dropped less than a week into their indoor Christmas journey, transforming our carpet into the duff of a forest floor. One tree, if memory serves, had to be brought indoors to thaw when its trunk, submerged in a five gallon bucket, froze solid during a cold snap.

Of our holiday forest only one tree came from the wilderness. That was the year we spent in a rented cabin on the sparsely inhabited fringe of the North Cascades Wilderness. A dollar bought us a Forest Service permit to seek out and cut the tree of our choice.

One day at dusk we trudged up a snow laden hillside (where our tracks intersected those of a roaming cougar) to a small clump of firs, each dwarfed it seemed by their towering Ponderosa pine neighbors and bagged the perfect tree for our Christmas. Our prize nearly swallowed up our VW bug and fir-camouflaged we plowed our way back to our cabin where we had to lop off nearly one-third of the tree to make it fit the low ceilings.

After our friend Dick Hetland presumed himself a conifer connoisseur and carted home his pick of the lot, wife Nan exercised her veto, demanded he discard the ugly thing, select another and reminded him in the future that tree selection was a joint venture. Dick and Nan's polarity in artistic tastes ushered in a period when the Hetlands and our family drove our daughters to neighboring tree farms where after considerable scrutiny, wind chill exposure, and ring-around-the rosy with each and every tree in the grove was the saw employed, the season's "perfect" tree selected.

In the past we have bartered for trees from Dale Reiner's tree lots (To Tree or not to Tree), the Doug fir of our choice in exchange for a quart of local honey gathered in the Valley by my industrious bees. These days, however, we select the season's centerpiece from local box stores, each year crossing our fingers that our choice will last the season without denuding itself and embarrassing the household, thus putting us on par with our friends the Hetlands and what we jokingly termed their "tree of the week" protocol.

Now the tree is in its stand and perpendicular--not plumb bob perpendicular, perhaps--but to the eyes of the householders close enough.

Next come the ornaments one by one, each in itself an attic-archived memory. There's the Micky Mouse medallion from Disney World. The silver-tarnished pine cone from Wallace, Idaho, a stopover to and from "The Field of Dreams." The frosted orb from the Southern Ute Reservation in Ignacio, Colorado, a literature inspired bucket list destination.

The Welsh Corgi angel dog, in memory of a pet. The candy-apple red glittered "kinky boot" from my cousin, a shoe salesman at Nordstrom's. Delicate snowflakes crocheted by mother-in-law, her memory preserved in each loving stitch. A pair of miniature mittens, crocheted with blue yarn...blue...a boy, the first grandchild. The golden heart ornament we "filched" (with our waiter's permission--and blessing) from a holiday tree in the window of Seattle's Icon Grill, a gilded memento of our fiftieth wedding anniversary.

The photo ornaments which spotlight and chronicle our daughter's journey across her many Christmases with us. Tradition dictates her ornament be the first hung on the tree each year, an elementary school art project in the likeness of a pear, a marvel in paper mache slathered one coat upon the next in yellow tempera.

And so down the years each Christmas tree serves up for us all a memory of its own, adds its uniqueness to that forest, a forest of memories, wood fuel to fire the nostalgia of Christmases past, gifts that need no wrapping.

                                  *                    *                  *                  *

Once a car stops and the rich mill owner's lazy wife leans out and whines: 
"Giveya two-bits cash for that ol tree."

Ordinarily my friend is afraid of saying no; but on this occasion she promptly shakes her head: "We wouldn't take a dollar."

The mill owner's wife persists. "A dollar, my foot! Fifty cents. That's my last offer. Goodness, woman, you can get another one."

In answer, my friend gently reflects: "I doubt it. There's never two of anything." 

                         Truman Capote's Aunt Sook in A Christmas Memory

Editor's note: In the course of composing this post, the tree-laden VW ornament pictured above accidentally slipped from my hand during its photo session, hit the floor and shattered to pieces. The ornament was a gift from my mother. Years ago she happened upon the ornament and because it reminded her of our wilderness tree hunt and tree-smothered car, presented it to us that Christmas. Now the ornament itself has sadly passed into memory and cast a bittersweet cloud over this post.

To Every Thing there is a Season...

                                                                                        
                                                                                       

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up
that which is planted.
                                   Ecclesiastes 3:2

Mid-October and it is strangely silent here on our one slim acre. Normally the raucous scolding of the jays would shatter the Valley calm from dawn til dusk. The stealthy flight of those blue thieves leapfrogging from tree to tree along the property lines was as regular as the daily commuter traffic out front. But not this fall; the noisy marauders are nowhere to be seen, have taken their thieving ways elsewhere.

"I'm going to pick up a walnut tree for my arboretum," Herman Zylstra, our retired dairy farmer neighbor told me. "Do you want me pick up one for you?" With the holiday baking in mind I told him, sure, it would be nice to have a walnut tree on the place, and that's how we came by the tree at the back of the property. That was over forty years ago....

I planted the sapling, watched the slip of a tree grow. It definitely liked the Valley soil, was quite at home here. The tree grew with a surprising vigor year after year even after its kin, light deprived, stunted, died in Herman's arboretum. Patiently I waited for my first walnut crop. Seven years, eight years, perhaps ten went by until I spied a few green orbs peering from the foliage. It was a crop, however, not destined for holiday sweetmeats. A flock of crows appeared out of nowhere, descended on the tree like the Black Plague and in five minutes the first ever walnut crop disappeared into the blue (or black).

The tree, a species (a Bastogne walnut) different from its the kindred English walnut, grew to a height of eighty feet (my estimate) and 127" in circumference chest high (my tape measure). The tree's vast canopy shaded the garden from the heat of summer sun, made afternoon gardening bearable. Its shadow spread across the backyard like a thunder cloud, cooled the west end of our house those hot summer evenings. The first hard fall frost would send the large leaves spiraling to earth nearly en mass and until early May the next year the branches would be bare.

Not only the robbing jays but also smaller bird species would flit about the leaves and branches. From their sentry posts atop the tree, hawks scanned the garden below for unsuspecting songbirds foraging at the feeding station or in the garden. For two or three seasons we had a nesting pair of mourning doves raise young in the branches. The tree's main trunk was riddled with cribbage board holes, each a feeding station for sapsuckers which performed their drilling with such stealth I never spied a single one. At harvest time squirrels, as many as a half dozen at a time, performed acrobatics among the branches as if they were part of an act for Cirque du soleil. A wound from a pruned off branch healed into a scar that put me in mind of a barn owl's face The tree trunk gave me a critical stare every time I passed by on the mower.

In latter years the tree bore so heavily feathered and furry thieves hardly made a dent in the crop. We gathered walnuts by the buckets full, many dislodged by hungry jays whose harvesting technique made gathering the mast easier. The nuts would shower down through the branches ricocheting from limb to limb like caroming pin balls in an arcade machine. From time to time I'd be pelted by husk shrapnel. After giving the nuts a good washing in a bucket of water, agitating and rinsing them a few times to remove husk residue, I'd pour them into our garden cart to dry. The cart had a metal mesh floor that allowed for good ventilation. A day or two to dry and I'd dump them on the hearth behind the wood stove to dry and cure.

The last few years the walnut began shedding branches, not an indicator of a tree in robust health, but I dismissed this self pruning as part of the "maturing" process. After storms tossed and whipped the branches winters and early spring, I would find downed limbs, some the size of my forearm, dry and brittle as bone, scattered about the trunk. Before each mowing session I'd have to carry or drag the fallout to the brush pile. But the tree continued to bear fruit, some years more heavily than others. This year the tree had a prodigious crop of walnuts. The branches bent under their load, the lower boughs scraped the ground under the weight. Summer pruning was in order just to be able to mow beneath the tree.

One morning in late July as I stepped out on the deck to don my garden boots and head to the chicken coop I heard what I thought was automatic weapons fire, a ripping, staccato kind of noise. I first thought of the firing range west of the Valley and thought this gunfire was dangerously close to the back fence. Stunned and amazed by the awesome sound I froze for a moment, confused, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar. I gazed toward the sound and then I saw the scar, a white slash gleaming in the morning sun, a parting of the bark where before there had been a limb.

The limb now sprawled across the back of the property. It had crashed down narrowly missing a pie cherry tree and now lay splayed out over the backyard. The rending sound brought my wife out of bed to ask about the commotion. I pointed to the tangle of branches, leaves, and globes of walnuts. In disbelief we walked out for a closer look and saw the large leader had split at the trunk, sheared off, leaving the other half still defying gravity. My wife approached that side of the tree for a closer look. I warned her to stay out from under the half leader still attached. It was a warning well heeded because not five minutes later the second half splintered and fell, coming to rest neatly around a hive of bees on the stand beneath. Branches and leaves had gently enfolded the hive as if hesitant to disturb its occupants which now swirled about in confusion trying to get their bearings.

Walnuts lay thick on the ground everywhere, made walking difficult--like traversing a skate deck covered with marbles. We now had a mess to deal with...and a big problem, a problem beyond us, a problem that required professional help. The two tree services we consulted both reached the same conclusion: pruning or trimming the tree would only prolong the inevitable. I had hoped to save the tree; perhaps a canopy trim, a pruning back of the limbs all around? The loss of the two large limbs, we were told, had the tree off balance, the weight now unequally distributed because of the heavy crop. In its weakened state more branches were sure to suffer the same fate. (In fact yet another large limb came down a couple days later.) Fate was a concern of mine, too. How often had I mowed beneath the tree over the years...that summer in fact? One thing for sure: having a leader that size crash down on me would have caused a headache no aspirin could cure. No way around it: the tree would have to go. A date was set.

The executioners arrived at eight in the morning. (Because of the sentiment involved, I say "executioners" although the tree service crew were polite and very professional. Still, as the tree was dismembered limb by limb, we felt like we were watching the execution of a longtime friend.)

The grand old walnut didn't go peacefully. The limbs were so heavily laden, the first one bucked back, narrowly missing the young sawyer. Compensating for the load per branch, after the near catastrophe the team made sure to set their chokers back up the branch, balancing the weight of the fruit against that of the leader.

The sawyer severed limb after limb from the trunk, working his way earthward one leader at a time. Swinging in space, freed from its parent trunk, the leaders were swung over the fence line, lowered, and then fed into the maw of a chattering chipper where each was shredded into thousands of chips off the old block.

Finally all that was left of our summer shade and the year's monstrous walnut crop was the last  twenty feet of the trunk and two heaping piles of rounds salvaged for firewood.

  













Walnut lumber is prime woodworking material. The owner of the tree service helped broker a deal for the trunk which helped defray some of the removal costs. The thought that someone somewhere might have furniture or wood crafts for their home fashioned from a tree that grew, flourished and shaded our property for decades helped somewhat to bear the loss of a significant part of our landscape.

It took a forty-eight inch bar to cut through the butt of the trunk which came down with a thud you could feel in your knees. To fit the truck bed, the trunk was halved, each half lifted skillfully and placed strategically for a balanced load. Then the old longtime resident left our one slim acre and rolled on down the road leaving giant hole in the sky where it had once stood. Gone now is the favorite perch of our avian visitors. Gone our summer shade. Gone the supply of nuts for holiday baking. Gone, too, the seasonal sunset displays bleeding through the tree's barren branches, a technicolor chiaroscuro of crimson fire. 

                                                                   *          *          *          *

The other day I saw a curious sight. A gray squirrel anchored on his haunches, sitting up in that quaint way of squirrels, tail puffed and curled at attention. He appeared to be pondering what was left of the walnut tree, looking at the slab of trunk as if it were a dance floor and he looking for a partner. It seemed to me his face wore a quizzical expression as if to say, "Seems to me I remember a walnut tree around here somewhere." He then scratched his head, obviously confused. He held this pose for a couple of minutes. Then in the way of all squirrels he darted off to parts unknown, taking the memory of the walnut tree with him.