Christmas Tree Killings

Guilt is a pretty powerful emotion. Moms know this and, by the time you are old enough to say 'I'm sorry', you know it too. And there are a lot of things to feel guilty for in life: opening the Christmas-wrapped Spider-man comic book, rewrapping it, and then only confessing after you'd been accused and found guilty; eating all 63 of your brother's Easter jellybeans because you'd previousy gorged on your own; murder...

Okay, so that last one seems a bit extreme, and I recognize that I'm crawling way out on the Christmas tree limb here, but I have come to realize that I am not a fan of a live Christmas tree being hacked out of the forest, used for two weeks (tops), and cavalierly thrown aside with egg shells and grease drippings.

My father and oldest sister have asthma, so growing up, we could never have a real (I dare not say 'live') Christmas tree for a few days before having to throw it out to ensure my sibling and papi continued to breathe. Eventually, we got a fake tree and have used one of those ever since. But two Christmases ago, I was living in Montana with a native-Montanan for a roommate. I also worked with people from Montana and they always went out into the forest, picked their own tree, cut it down, and hauled it back to the house. I even knew of a family who looked for the biggest they could find so that it would scrape the top of their vaulted ceiling. A co-worker and her husband invited my friend and I to come with them and, seduced by many years of hallmark and the thought of a real, live, pine-scenty tree, we succumbed.

The first step in a Christmas tree killing was to buy the tag. Yep, just like when you go hunting. The Forest Service sells them for $5.00 each. Definitely a better deal than elk hunting. Early one Saturday morning at the beginning of Christmas, she and I awoke and dressed in all the warm layers we could find, got in my coworker's truck, and drove out somewhere into the beyond. For hours we all trekked up hills and down, saw where a forest fire had wiped out life and how it came back again.

A snow-covered valley, flush with early afternoon light. A silence which only heavy snow can produce, nature holds its breath. I sat down on a tree stump and looked around. The sight was truly breathtaking (not just because my legs and lungs were giving out). As my co-worker, husband, and roommate began looking at trees, I continued to sit. And suddenly that silence, broken only by shouts of tree sizes and unwrapping of saws and ropes, seemed a bit sad to me. Montana has forest fires every year. Some quite severe. These trees had survived. They had survived devastating fire, and Japanese pine beetle, drought, animal maulings, all other forms of disease and insect, and the woodsman's ax. Year after precarious year they had lived this way. And now they were going to die for $5.00, so my roommate and I could have a tree for a few weeks. They would never again be home to birds and small animals, they would never provide shelter or food, never reach for the sky, never purify the air and soil. They would die because of tradition. Not even my tradition. I felt awful. My head hurt. My eyes grew heavy. My body ached. Was I linked to the trees? Had I somehow tapped into the spirit of the forest, sharing an awareness of death?

The trees were chosen. The ax came down. Again and again and again. Two trees fell. Rope encircled branches, binding tighter and tighter. Thrown on to two sleds, the trees seemed smaller, diminished. No longer a part of the great life that surrounded them. We began the long haul back to the car. Up hill and down. Each step became harder. I grew disproportionately weaker than each hill should have made me. Trance-like, I kept one foot in front of the other only with effort. Finally, salvation. An old blue truck. The trees loaded, we headed back down the mountain. My eyes closed.

Opening them again, we had reached our apartment. Enter the tree. We decorated it with ornaments we had on hand. I declined the firm Christmas party in lieu of five hours of sleep and a week of the flu. The tree was gone with neighbors' turkey and mistletoe.

Do I oppose Christmas trees? No. Do I think anything negative of people who have real ones? No. But in that moment, sitting out there in the snowy silence, thinking about all it took to grow even one of those trees, I realized how special they really are. That they are, in fact, more significant than two weeks can give. I believe the best hunters are respectful. They understand that they are taking something's life to continue their own. They do not waste an animal, they do not poach, and they do not help others do so. They respect the natural environment and do their best not to disturb the land and keep it healthy for life to continue. But I also know that not everyone is a hunter. Some people get their meat from a grocery store. Some people eat tofu. And Christmas trees are the same. Some find it incredibly significant to go with family and friends into the forest. Others enjoy the local tree lot where every tree is guaranteed to be wide and fluffy. Still others have opted for fake (yet surprisingly real-looking) trees.

As for me, when I have my own apartment again, I've decided that I would like to buy a tree sometime in the summer. Let it grow indoors and decorate it come Christmas. The following spring, I will grab some friends and find a quiet little mountain valley. There, I will leave a piece of Christmas to grow, my tradition for many years to come.