(I’ve been dry on ideas and forced myself to write it. Reminded me of how I feel with scrawny Christmas trees. I won’t force you to read it, though!)
I’m going cut down my Christmas tree today. I don’t think there’s much of a story in that for your paper.
It’s that scraggly little bit of thing, no taller ‘en me, out in that open patch, over there. In the middle of these woods. Wilderness like you called it. The trees ‘round it, big old balsams and pines, and spruce, don’t forget the spruce, tower over that pup. Sits in their shadow, you know, won’t let sun touch it. No wonder the little guy can’t grow. Won’t make it either, not for long. I can almost hear those big old pines looking down laughing on it.
I seen it in the grove a lot, when I go over the trapline and all. Kept an eye on it. First noticed him three years back and didn’t think he’d make it. Snow covered him ‘til March, then there he was popping up over the top. Felt bad, I did. Crazy if you ask me. Too much time out here. I mean, lookee round. There are trees and then some. Must be a thousand like him. More, don’t you think? More than a thousand. Ten thousand. Don’t know why I noticed that one.
Here, feel that? Solid cabin and lordy lord it took me a bunch of trees to build it and didn’t think about them other than wood. That stove over there must have burned, I don’t know how many cords, but plenty over the years. Plenty, believe me. It gets cold up here, ayuh. So cold some nights they explode on you, the trees. I been hit with wood shrapnel. Almost took my out eye once. Got me thinking, you know. Got me remembering things from away what I came here to forget.
Yes chief, things to forget. Won’t let me though. Nope. You don’t need to write that in that book of yours. Not a book you say? Column, huh? Down East Originals. Okay, in that column of yours.
I do admit I like the birches. They make good tools, handles for knives when they crack, and the bark burns like they been doused with kerosene! Handy to get a fire going if I’m stuck out there, in a blizzard, and that’s happened I can tell you. Fact is the bark is peels off easy. Make a lean-to out of it, kept the rain off, sheds water like the back of a duck. Between that and the fire, saved my bacon plenty. Wet and in that cold, phew, wouldn’t have made it.
Course there’s the canoe. Not a nail in it. Just birch, cedar and spruce. Made it with that old fellow, Jethro Cook, years back. A real Indian he was, Abenaki and Wampanoag. Claimed his real name was Pennacook and great great great grandson or something of King Philip, but Jethro was a teaser so who knows? Showed me how. Sewed the birch bark up with spruce roots, split and soaked. Fixed it with spruce gum melted down for resin. You want some? It’s spruce gum. Nah? Kind of an acquired taste, eh?
That canoe’s gotta be, oh, 40 years old, maybe more. Maybe 50. Jethro got himself killed. Run down by a bull moose in the rut. Not funny a’tall, but he’d have laughed about it. Jethro was old then, 80, 85 something like that. Listen to me saying that’s old! Bad leg he limped on. Don’t think he’d ‘ave outrun a bull moose on his best day.
That little tree won’t make it. Nope. Needs sun. Needs the soil to spread its root out. Those bigger trees won’t let it though. Bullies if you ask me. Not sure how he took in the first place. Could be just a small patch of sun hit the right spot and the squirrels didn’t eat the seed out of his mama’s cone. Squirrels do like them, the red ones. Don’t be numb! Yes, red squirrels! The chatty ones.
Speaking of chatty, ain’t I just the chattebox? I don’t get a lot of visitors so Imaking up for lost time. Talk to myself though, and the squirrels and the trees. Hell, I’ll talk to anything that’ll listen. Don’t you worry now. They don’t talk back. Much.
You wonder if trees know things? I do. In the wind, they move like they’re laughing sometimes. That gets me laughing. When I cut ‘em down, I wonder if they don’t know. Never used to think that way. Some’ll call it cabin fever, but I don’t think so. No, I think I’ve got a feel for things nowadays, different from when I was younger. Maybe that ESP thing. Or could be cabin fever is about right after all!
What’s that? Well yeah, I feel bad hunting, even fishing. More ‘en I used to that’s for sure. They don’t want to die either, get caught, get eaten. Would you? But it’s the trees I wonder on. Like that one, the little one. All alone out there. Crazy talk is what it is. Hell, when I cut it down I don’t even need an axe; bend it over and get it with a knife. Quick and done. It’s just a tree. Won’t make it anyways. Just won’t. Poor little fella.
That’s the one, yep. Sort of stands out. Pipsqueak it is. Cold out here, isn’t it. Let’s head in. I got two bottles I’ll put under it. When I cut him down. A gift to myself. Know what it is, in them bottles?
Whiskey? Hell no. Calvados! Yes sir. Straight from France. Had it there, you know, in the war. Calvados and Mademoiselles! Get a bottle every year. Have to order it special. Oh heck, let Christmas come early. If you’re still planning on staying the night, we open it.
No, I don’t mind. Welcome the company. You can write about that in that paper of yours! Still can’t figure anyone would be interested, but that’s your business. Tell ‘em this crazy coot likes apple brandy. That’s what it is, you know. Apple brandy.
Yeah, I guess so. Time waits for no man. You want to do it, cut him down? No? Sad thing, huh. Hand me that axe, will ya? Thing’s made in Sweden, says right on it. You could shave with it if you had a mind to. See this bald patch? I test the blade with the hair on my arm. Keeps me sharp too!
Ah, the hell with it.
No you lummox! Of course I know it’s the wrong tree. This one’s, oh, thirty forty feet maybe. See that up there? White pine blister rust they call it. Just noticed. It’ll kill the tree in time. But it’s blocking the sun for the little one. If it comes down, it’ll give the fella a chance. Plus I’ll burn it in the stove. Kills the blight you know. Figure if I cut that one there it’ll give the guy more sun and root space. Hell, we’ll use a branch for the Christmas tree.
Heck, yeah, I’m an old softy. Maybe soft in the head. Now put that in your story and let’s get to cutting.