Is This You? Trimming The Tree-Literally

There should always be a story come out of your home about the Christmas tree. Where you got it. Bought it or harvested it. Decorating from bough to bough with years of family loved ornaments or new shiny balls or popcorn and cranberries. Oh, I have more than a few stories to share. But! Yes, a pine fresh “but.” Here is a good Christmas tree story that still reverberates in my soul and ears. 

Being a girl, I have my own way of measuring. I look at a pot roast and know how many people it will feed and how many potatoes and carrots to put in the pot. I know it’s a 22-mile-long stretch of Highway 50 coming from Mt. Airy into Austin, Nevada. Most importantly, I can tell what size of a Christmas tree will fit in my living room. NOT A DOUBT! 

I’ve always lived in Nevada. Living in Reno my family would go up towards Tahoe to get a tree when I was a kid. Not knowing any better, my dad sadly topped a few trees to bring home. I can still see his skinny long legs squirreling up a huge tree, sawing and yelling “Look out below.” Of course this was pre tree permits and other rules. In my early married years in Eureka, we too had that freedom when going Christmas Tree Hunting. 

So, when we would gather up our ole Christmas Tree saw, I was the picker, always knowing exactly the size we needed. For many years we, well my lumber jack husband cut the tree with our “tree” saw. When we got a bit older the little saw morphed into a chain saw. Our Christmas tree saw is now owned by a young family and I pray they cut many trees with it.

With age comes change. But not my measuring eye. No it was always right. We would troddle up the mountain ‘till I spotted “IT!” I would hop out, put my arms out to measure then announce it was perfect. At that point before any cut he’d say, “It’s too big.” This one year I held my ground. It was perfect. “Too big,” he mumbled. “Perfect,” I swooned. So he cut her down and home we headed.

Our tree stand was 8 to 10 inches cut off the bottom of a 55-gallon oil drum. Then we had a handmade wooden two by four inch makeshift stand screwed together. The tree stood in the center and was tighten down in the stand with wing nutted screws. All very rural using whatever was handy. We’d bring in the tree, screw it tightly in the stand, fill the barrel with water and the season would be in full swing. Easy peasy. Year after year. Christmastime. Getting the perfect tree down off the mountain and into the house. What could happen? HA!

So in reading this next segment, in my defense, I was going to put that year’s tree in a new spot. One that we had not had a tree in yet. 

Before going tree hunting I spread my arms across the new spot for the tree of the year. I measured. Twice. I was ready. Away we went and I found the most gorgeous pine tree. She was standing there and I knew that she was planted years ago and was just waiting for the perfect Christmas. Yes, I am that girl.

After the “too big” words from him and my sweet “just right” replies, we got home and brought it in through the front door. Ta Da, it was in the living room. And, it was, well, it was big. I mean really, really big. He went to set it up and it hit the 8-foot ceiling. Dang, it was too big. I giggled a little. He was never one to say “I told ya so.” No he was very calm about the whole thing. I expected that the next thing he would do was to carry the tree back outside, trim it up and bring it back in. But! HAHA He just laid the tree back down and walked out the front door. No words, just out he went. I stood there a few minutes trying to decide what to do next when all of a sudden, he popped back in the door---carrying his chain saw. 

Next thing I heard was the pull rope on the chain saw and the motor started up; varrrump zingity-zing-zing. Then away he went, cutting the tree down to size, in my living room! Yes, in the living room-with a chain saw! Off came like a foot of trunk, about five or six boughs. Chips flying and needles spitting across the room.

And that’s how we trimmed our Christmas tree in the 70’s—literally.

Trina lives in Diamond Valley, north of Eureka, Nevada. She loves to hear from readers. Email her at [email protected]

Really!