The Superior Express -

When we first moved from Rhode Island to Pennsylvania, my parents were excited because our 110 acres had many pine trees. They envisioned treks to find the perfect Christmas tree, plucked from their own property. So began the annual Christmas tree hunt. There was a large learning curve along with this hunt over the years. The first being the first day of rifle hunting season begins the first Monday after Thanksgiving in Pennsylvania. This event is so popular the schools are closed that day because everyone is out hunting and nobody, including the teachers, shows up for classes. It also means that unless you are clothed from head to toe in bright orange with a hunting license pinned to your back and a rifle in your hand, you are wise not to venture into the woods. We soon found that rifle hunting was not a good time to hunt for a Christmas tree. Because my father worked the Friday after Thanksgiving, the weekend after Turkey Day became “tree hunting” day.

On “tree hunting” day, once the morning chores were done, we all prepared to depart. My mom and I saddled the horses, my dad fired up the tractor and hitched it to the wagon. My brother jumped on his Honda trail bike. Off we went, with my brother zooming away to scout the trails, my mother and I checking into the nooks and crannies along the way, and my father chugging along last with all the necessities to actually harvest the tree.

I usually found the first prospect.

“What do you mean it’s too tall?” I would ask while holding my hand on my forehead to shade the sun from my eyes and tilting my head back to see the top of the towering pine.

Off we would go. My brother finding the next prospect.

“Are you sure it won’t fit through the door?” He would ask of a tree rounder than the tractor and trailer together.

On we went. Too small, (we will remember it for next year), too pretty (it looks perfect where it is growing), too skinny, etc. Finally it was getting late and we needed to find something.

“Something” is the best name for the species of tree we seemed to always end up with. It made Charlie Brown’s tree look perfect. Normally it had about six branches with large spaces between, several tops, brittle needles, and any other undesirable trait you can think of. My father would deposit the tree on the porch, and everyone headed off to put away their rides and complete the evening chores.

After dinner it was tree decorating time. The tree was set up in its stand and out came the lights; five or six sets of lights to be wrapped around and around the tree. Next the garland was added in a cobweb pattern to fill in the empty spaces. Now it was time for the ornaments. Five or six ornaments were hung from each branch and some more from the garland. Finally, several boxes of “icicles” were thrown by the handful at the tree!

All decorated, my mom would appear with hot chocolate and cookies so we would admire our day’s works and sing carols. The tree, by now, had become a work of art, well, a work of abstract art anyway.