On Goldenrod Road

The Christmas Story

          During the days following Thanksgiving something approaching a retail miracle happens in towns everywhere in the U.S. Overnight, workers drape department stores in silver, gold, red, and green decorations. Snowy scenes of Santa and reindeer are placed in show windows. Houses, wearing garlands of multicolored bulbs, frame their night shapes in swaths of shimmering light. Radios blare Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock . . . and croon Chestnuts roasting on an open fire . . . .  And a vacant space is transformed like magic into a Christmas tree lot with well-stocked rows of assorted trees. Signs shout: "Christmas Trees – Douglas Firs, Noble Firs, Grand Firs." And in front of these lots, especially on weekends, newly purchased trees poke from car trunks or are tied to their roofs.

            But when I was a kid, Christmas tree lots were few and far between. Where I lived, they were either the domain of the rich or the lazy. Why? Port Orchard was surrounded with an abundance of public land with an ample supply of Christmas-sized trees, begging to be cut.

            So, since my family was neither rich nor lazy, we made it a tradition—my mom, dad, and me on the first Saturday in December—to hop into the 1941 Chevrolet and drive into the country to claim our Yuletide tree. Near the county airport lay more than a hundred acres of public land where thousands, of recently seeded fir trees grew. Often we'd end up there. After pulling our Chevy off the road, we would fan out to inspect dozens of prospective trees for our living room. I'd eagerly shout out my advice: “Look at this one, Dad,” and “I think this BIG one is best, Mom.” But -- my mother would always get her way. I gave my suggestions, but my mother commanded, “We’ll take this one!” And my dad, submitting to a greater authority than me, would cut it down and jam it in the trunk.

            One year, however, this free and easy way of harvesting Christmas trees ceased and our tradition changed forever. When I was about ten years old, the State of Washington passed a new law. It forbade the harvesting of trees on public land. (Yes, that included Christmas trees.) At the time we thought, No problem. After all, we knew plenty of people who owned large parcels of property. Surely, with their help we could find an adequate Christmas tree.

            So, that first Saturday in December we jumped into the Chevy and drove off to the Anderson's to find a tree. They owned over twenty acres of land, much of it serving as pasture for their horses, but there was a wooded section in back. I knew we could find a tree there. Ray Anderson met us as we parked the car in their driveway. “You’re welcome to look all you want, but the pickin’s look mighty slim this year.” Undaunted by his words, we searched with faith in our hearts. Most of the trees were big enough to build houses. Others were merely too big to fit in them. Those the right size looked scraggly, with stubby limbs, having lost the competition with brush for space and taller trees for sunlight. We gave up on the Andersons – disappointed but not defeated.

            We had another option, the Lipperts. My sister was married to their oldest son Bill. They owned over fifty acres of pasture and forest. No problem. When we arrived, my dad got out of the car and knocked on their door. A few moments later he returned. “They’re not home,” he explained. My heart sank because I realized my righteous, law-abiding father would never invade the Lippert’s property without permission.

            My mom, who had been known to bend the rules on a few occasions, suggested, “Forrest (Yes, my dad’s first name ironically was Forrest.), why don’t we just go out to the airport? No one will miss one measly tree.”

            “Max,” (short for Maxine) Dad answered, “You know it’s against the law now. If we got caught, we’d have to pay a fine. Besides, what kind of example would that set for Gary?” he asked. He gazed at me with the gray-eyed uprightness of a judge.

            “Well, I suppose you’re right,” she admitted, and her shoulders sagged in defeat.

            He turned the car around and headed down the highway. We passed the turnoff for our house. “Hey, Dad, where are we goin’? I asked.

            “To get a Christmas tree,” was the answer. “And that’s a promise,” he added with his jaw set in a determined pose.

            We drove and drove way out into the country, the gray clouds looking ominous. It was starting to snow. I didn’t know where we were; I had never been in this part of the county before. After an hour my dad slowed the car and made a right turn down a gravel road.

            “Where does this go, Dad?”

            “To some Christmas trees, I hope.” He had made up his mind, but was being stubborn a virtue?

            A barbed wire fence lined the road. Behind it some promising-looking trees beckoned to us. The road curved into a short drive blocked by a gate marked with a “No Trespassing” sign. My dad braked the car, turned around, and returned to the main highway. My dad always respected private property. Even if there were a thousand perfect trees on the other side of the gate, I know he would never violate the “No Trespassing” sign. My dad gave a sigh of frustration as we cruised down the snowy asphalt.

            The snow was getting deeper as we continued down the county road. A skiff of white was beginning to cover the tree boughs, and the countryside was turning into a wintry fairyland before our eyes. The world hushed as the snow muffled the car's sounds. My dad suddenly slammed on the brakes, and the car slidded to a stop by the side of the road.

            “What are you doing, Forrest?” my mom asked.

            “Don’t bother me with questions, woman. I’m a desperate man,” came the reply. My mom and I exchanged puzzled glances.

            On the road cut in the public right of way a number of Christmas-sized trees were growing in a group. Some of them were the perfect size and shaped into perfect cones.

            “But, Dad,” I remarked. “This is public land, isn’t it?”

            Not bothering to respond to such a factual comment, my father commanded, "Stay by the car and keep out of the way." He also stationed my mom down the road a ways to keep watch while he made his way up the snowy embankment. Concealing his trusty handsaw under his long overcoat, his eyes darted from tree to tree. Then, making his choice, he sawed one off at the base, hoisted it waist-high, and started slogging back to the car.

            My mom gave out a warning whoop as a car came into view around a bend in the road. But it was too late to hide. Too late to conceal our felony. My dad simply carried the cut tree toward the car. As the other car drove by, I could swear I detected smiles on the faces of the people inside. My dad finished stuffing the tree into the car’s trunk, and we headed homeward with our stolen prize.

            I've often wondered what caused my dad to poach that public tree? Maybe he did it out of sheer frustration. Maybe he did it because of the promise he made to me that day. Maybe I simply overestimated the toughness of his moral fiber. Or . . . just maybe it happened because everyone holds a little larceny in their hearts.

            In any case, we erected that tree in the traditional window space. We then decorated it – my dad completing the ritual by placing the plastic, yellow star on top. It wasn’t the prettiest Christmas tree we ever had, but it was the most memorable. To this day I don't remember all of my childhood Christmases; I barely remember any of my presents. But I will always remember that Christmas when my dad broke the law.

Author's note: this piece was originally entitled "A Christmas Memory." I changed the title for two reasons. First, "A Christmas Memory" is already the title of a brilliant and beautiful short story by Truman Capote. Second, the new title. "The Christmas Memory", is more appropriate. Most of my Christmas recollections are scattered and unremarkable—except for this one.