By the time my parents migrated to Down East Maine, in the late 1960s, they'd left behind a few traditions — and consequently needed to invent a few of their own. So when my brother and I grew to slightly taller than the surrounding snowbanks, we began a Christmas Eve practice of searching for our own balsam fir in the woods behind our Surry house.
In 1970, 53 inches of snow fell in December alone and there were almost no years in the decade that followed without it. Still, the snow and cold never seemed an impediment to any arguments about symmetry. And choosing a tree was a fine exercise in democracy.
When my wife, my 9-year-old daughter and I now head into the woods, it’s hard to deny that we’re not conditioned by a world ruled by abnormally perfect shapes and colors — not just Christmas trees but monochromatic, uniform tomatoes and freakishly orange, farmed salmon. Surely it is an unreasonable ideal which rejects the spindly and lopsided and which prolongs our search every year. Because we’re cutting bigger trees down to reach their “perfect” tops, the bow saw has been replaced by a chainsaw.
This year, weather forced our hand and we went out a few days early, on account of the rain and near-hurricane force winds that were projected. Breaking slightly with tradition was bothersome but all rituals may have to bow down to the weather before we can lasso our planet’s runaway CO2.
We followed the remnants of a skidder track en route to the pond that borders the western edge of our property. There was a skim of snow weighing the underbrush down and the cold had stiffened every shoot and branch in our path.
When we reached the pond, a thin membrane of ice tempted my daughter to poke her boot through it. With mostly rain in the forecast, it’s possible we may not be lacing up our skates this year.
At last, with the light failing, I spotted a small cluster of potential trees. None of them were balsam fir but we’ve made do with spruce for years. In keeping with the democratic spirit of the day, I asked for my daughter’s opinion. She was cranky by then, and uninterested, but with my wife’s imprimatur, I was finally cutting down another tall tree, to harvest the upper 8 feet of it.
My daughter’s crankiness is part and parcel of an anxiety that predates the COVID pandemic, something that remote learning and switching schools have not eased. She’s lost some of her confidence and dropped a class she loved, and we’ve been heartbroken about it ever since. The holidays had not delivered us any expected boost.
Perhaps it is this preoccupation that wakes me earlier and earlier, when all the melatonin in the world seems not to do a bit of good. On this particular morning, I wonder, what form joy will take, when it returns — if it does.
I open the damper on the wood stove and flip the switch on the white lights of our tree. A stasis had prevailed in the days before Christmas, and nearly all the two boxes’ worth of ornaments remained in the upstairs closet. Their absence on the tree seems to perfectly mirror my malaise. A gift, untouched, remains on the floor, a fitting commentary on my attitude toward the holiday in general.
However, on this morning, with the holidays nearly two weeks gone, I notice that the tree that entered our house with more grumbling than fanfare now seems to glow with some undeniable seasonal warmth. Despite all my Scrooge-worthy disdain, I cannot deny its stately appeal, its quiet reserve.
Interwoven with the string of lights are the old standbys — swoops of popcorn-and-cranberry chains, from top to bottom. There are red and silver balls, on whose surfaces the lights dance when the cat swats at them. There is an illustrated note from Santa nestled in the lower branches; a trim Santa is skating on a pond with Rudolph.
While others now lobby for the tree’s immediate removal, the idea upsets me. I stall and think of a workaround. Perhaps I can trick the unsentimental by taking it down in stages. On one day, I’ll stow the balls in their tiered box, leaving one on the lowest limb for the cat to play with. On another, I’ll take the chains out to the chickens.
Whatever it is about this tree, I’ll do all I can to keep it in season, to keep the lights on.
Durin Chappe is a carpenter and occasional writer who lives with his family in the shadow of Schoodic Mountain in Downeast Maine.
