Oh, The Spirit Has Arrived (in the form of a tree)

It's the sort of excitement that bubbles up with anticipation, every step a pure delight. Like unwrapping a piece of milk chocolate from shiny tin foil paper, you know what awaits you with every peel and tug of the covering, but just the act is rewarding in itself, the exposed chocolate the definitive and satisfying conclusion. We were going to get a tree today, a Christmas tree.

Faux-Christmas -- as I called it -- had occurred the day before with my father's side of the family. Not obscenely early, but still early enough to make the act feel a bit forced and un-Christmas like. Perhaps it was the lack of my own decorations around the house, I thought. Maybe I needed to get more into the good old Christmas spirit? And what better than the symbol of Christmas -- no, not Santa -- the tree! That classic balsam fir, "Oh, Christmas tree" carol-inspiring, bulb-wielding, light-twinkling holiday icon.

The heat blew out in short puffs from the heater along the back of my bed, its force ruffling the blue curtains by my head and stirring me awake. Erik had been up for an hour already, maybe two, and I lay alone in bed, sprawled diagonally across, happily hogging all the blankets. The winter blue-pink light shone into my room and I peeled back the covers reluctantly, rolling out of bed. Suddenly the thought occurred to me, today was the perfect day for a tree!

A light dusting of snow had blanketed the ground, renegade leaves that had refused to be bagged poked out, reaching for the sun for one last hoo-rah before being forgotten in winter's cover. I checked the thermometer -- single digits, ruthlessly cold. Excited, we made space in the living room, pushing couches this way and chairs that way, piling plants on tables, straining to inch the television just a schmidge to the left until finally a small corner was cleared, prepped for the tree. Standing back I could see it in my mind's eye, full and heavy with ornaments. I inhaled, imagining the sap and fresh outdoorsy scent encompassing the house.

We laced up our boots, exchanging eager glances. I told him about the crudely painted yellow and green wooden sign I had passed the other day. The penmanship was something second grade teachers would roll their eyes at, but incredibly charming nonetheless. In a pudgy line across the middle, four pine trees with spiky boughs advertised the wares: Christmas trees. A shaky arrow pointed down the road to the left, "1 mile" it had read.

"That's where we will go," I told him. "We need to stay local. Why go downtown to get a tree that was grown in North Carolina when we could go up the road to our friendly neighbour the tree farmer and get a fresh, Maine tree?" I had recently read in the paper how most trees people purchase are from out-of-state tree farms, explaining the high prices, and I swore I would stay local.

The air was crisp as we marched outside with our hats, mittens, scarfs and coats pulled snuggly over our bodies. The snow began to fall in fluffy white chunks like someone was sprinkling fine pieces of cotton candy down from above. I held my tongue out to catch the treats, the cold kissing my cheeks and clutching my eyelashes.

Huddled inside the cab of the truck we made our way up the road looking for the splintered sign I had seen before, the rear-wheel drive squirreling out around snowy corners. Spotting the sign, we pulled on the back road toward the farm, unsure of what we would encounter, but giddy.

The tree farm looked like a regular house, only a house with a few rows of trees in the front, back and side yards. "Is this it?" Erik asked.

"I guess so. What do you think we do?" I asked peering out the fogged up back window of the truck toward the house. "Is anyone home?" We shrugged at each other and made our way toward the house, a dog barked somewhere inside and I hoped that it wasn't a large, defensive guard dog. Lord knows a bite to the arm would have ruined this Christmas endeavour, holiday cheer or not.

A slender man in his fifties greeted us as we approached the house (sans dog, thankfully), he wore a faded red sweatshirt with a college insignia and rough blue jeans, atop his head sat a lopsided baseball cap. "Hello there!" He welcomed. "We're not really open, but help yourself to some hot cocoa," he said as he gestured toward a thermos on the picnic table, "and you can just go pick any tree you want, here's the saw. Just go out there and cut one down yourself." How he was technically "not open" was confusing as he seemed prepped for customers, the hot cocoa and all.

We turned to look at the sea of choices and sprinted into the Christmas forest. "This one. No, this one. No, this one!" we shouted out, trying to find the perfect tree for our house. We frolicked through the groves looking for the perfect tree. "That one is too thin. This is too naked on this side. That one has no top." We ogled each tree, comparing it with the last like a piece of fine art for sale. In the end, we both went back to the first, the first tree we both saw from afar.

We took turns with the hand saw, cutting into the trunk easily, our hands chilled by the cold air. With the final cut Erik yelled, "Timber!" as the seven foot tree slowly fell over, his hand guiding it from the top as I drew the blade across the final piece of bark.

Hauling it back to the truck, we smiled, satisfied at our choice. The anticipation was over, it was finally Christmas.