The journey that brought us to this year’s Christmas tree began about fourteen years ago. We had only been in our home for a short time and the front yard was still a barren wasteland devoid of character or anything other than standard yew and juniper fare. The lawn tumbled rather ungracefully to the street, so the main view one had when surveying things from the front door was an expanse of dark pavement. To break this up, I planted an island of three specimens: a Chinese dogwood, a Chamaecyparis, and a tiny foot-tall blue spruce. Between this and the street I planted a long row of Thuja ‘Steeplechase’ – about a dozen.
I knew the spruce would eventually outgrew the space, but it would take a while – at least a decade – and I couldn’t see that far ahead back then, so in it went. The first few years it stayed relatively small, with only a few new puffs of soft blue-gray needles appearing each spring. It also had enough room to develop a decent coniferous form. When it was about five or six, it was the perfect size for a strand or two of Christmas lights, so I ran an extension cord all the way down the lawn and lit it up.
Eventually though, as all babies and children do, it grew up. The neighboring dogwood had grown too, as had the Chamaecyparis (which I’d had to cut down a few years ago thanks to its size and unruliness). The blue spruce was reaching true Christmas-tree size. Whether utilized as such or not, it would need to be taken out. The dogwood was already bending its beautiful limbs around it, and where it refused to yield the spruce was making motions against its pretty form.
For the last two years, I’ve been promising to cut it down and bring it in for Christmas, but each time something came up. This year my co-worker Heath said he had a chainsaw (gas and oil-powered!) and could make quick work of cutting it down. Since it was about ten feet tall, I pruned off the lower branches, marked off a suitable place to cut, and had Heath over after work to make it all fall down. After planning and picturing it for years, the actual event was woefully anti-climactic. The mighty spruce was felled in a few seconds, and Heath leveled the stump at the ground. It was as if no spruce occupied the space for all those years. The tricks of time. The wonder of nature. The weight of the world.
We propped it up in the garage, where it lowered its boughs gloriously, seeming to expand before our eyes. It would require additional pruning to bring it to a manageable size, but it was, in my eyes, practically perfect. Proud as a parent and a peacock, I remembered how small it was when I planted it in our front yard. I thought of all it had seen – all the summers and springs and winters, all the guests and family and friends who had paraded by, all the games of hide and seek with my niece and nephew. It was a special tree, and it was getting a special send-off.
Draped with lights and decorations, it takes pride-of-place in our living room, scenting the whole house with its gloriously fresh pine fragrance – the perfume that only Christmas can conjure. So much lovelier than dismembering it into a bunch of brown lawn bags come the spring.
(Many thanks to Heath and his chainsaw for making it happen!)
