Sunday was warm and sunny. “Why don’t you take Doug and get the Christmas tree? The conditions are ideal today. We are supposed to receive a dump of snow later this coming week and then you won’t be able to drive the quad along the trails.”
My wife Laura was trying to make what could be an ordeal, into something fun.
So, Sunday afternoon, son Doug and I donned helmets, grabbed the saw, climbed on board the quad and took off down our riding trails, Doug driving.
Doug is 12 and only recently has decided he’d like to spend more time with his aging dad. I’m thrilled. Last week he said he wanted to help me throw wood into the basement. Great. Then Laura mentioned there was a downed tree across a main riding trail artery preventing passage by horse and rider. Doug asked if he could come with me to clear the trail. Great.
We bounced along the trail following the route described by Laura until we located the fallen tree.
“Aha,” I announced. “Tis a spruce and a dry one at that. It obviously has been dead for some time until a strong wind released it from its moorings, so to speak.”
We clambered off the vehicle; I started the chainsaw and commenced to limb the tree prior to cutting it into fireplace-sized pieces. When I gave the nod, Doug pulled away the branches and placed the future snap, crackle and pop pieces into the quad trailer. The deed took no longer than 10 minutes.
With our load we returned to Casa Jones to unload beside the chopping block by the wood pile.
When I went outside to hand-split the wood recently retrieved, Doug asked if he could join me and maybe split some too. Great. Now I could teach him the skill of splitting with an axe just as my dad had taught me so many years ago.
“Your grandfather was a lawyer in Toronto. One of his greatest pleasures was when we went to our summer cottage and he got to split firewood. Something very satisfying in that deed,” I ventured.
So Doug learned a few tricks about stubborn logs: twisting the axe just as it hits the wood; if the axe blade gets stuck in the wood, turning the axe upside down and smashing the axe-head down on the block. Most times the piece will split.
Laura had indicated where she wanted us to fetch a tree in the back field that has grown in lo’ these 40 years since the land was last farmed.
“Take a tree from the left side as you are driving southeast. Don’t cut one from the west because that’s where trail riders like to take pictures.”
Doug drove carefully through the woods until we reached the field. I had been singing Christmas tunes as we negotiated hills, twists, and turns.
We finally reached the appointed area to begin our search. All of these specimens had self-seeded over the years, some almost choking each other. We located a likely candidate, a spruce, after tromping for a bit.
Doug handed me the handsaw and I commenced to separate the tree from its base. Now, I’m out of shape. One of my shoulders has a torn ligament while the other has arthritis. I had to stop for a breather at which point Doug asked if he could try.
“By all means, son. My back hurts from bending so low.” While Doug sawed, I told him how when I was a boy, my dad had taken me each year to buy a scotch pine from a parking lot in Toronto.
“We usually went in the evening for some reason when it was dark. I will always remember one such lot festooned with trees and lit by a string of hanging lights. It was magic for me, this green, sweet-smelling, pine forest amidst tall buildings.”
Down came the candidate. We loaded it onto the trailer, tied it in and motored back to the house singing the whole way.
Laura was thrilled with our choice. After I hauled it into the house and we got it positioned, centered against the big picture window, Laura declared Doug and I had established a new tradition: as long as possible, he and I would be the Christmas tree fetchers.
Great! Another tradition established! Hot chocolate all around!
You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.