Doctors' children go untreated, cobblers' children go barefoot, and loggers' children don't get to cut down Christmas trees.
Trees were Daddy's business. Once, when we were very young, Daddy brought home three trees. A big one for the living room, and two small ones: one for the girls' room and one for the boys'. Six year Susie thanked her father for the trees, dubbed them the trinity, but then asked why hers wasn't pink. Even a logger's daughter wants a pink Douglas fir once in a while.
But as the years past, the Manthei Christmas trees came from the tree stand. There was still plenty of merriment in tree standing shopping, with Daddy regaling the children with tales of his years manning a Christmas tree stand.
This year, though, would be different. Daddy's work site was up in the foothills, populated with various flora, hidden fauna, and the ubiquitous, armed marijuana-grower. Yes, nestled in the emerald foothills of Northern California were various marijuana gardens, cultivated and protected by angst-filled entrepreneurs, who were extremely sensitive about their gardens--even when said gardens rested on others' properties. But it was the flora, specifically the sort that lent itself to Christmas celebrations that held our interest. There were five of us in the cherry-red SUV that slowly wound its way up curved, dirt roads--if they could even be called that. There was Daddy, black bearded and marry, with brown eyes twinkling with the excitement of his favorite season. Susie and Ben, boy-girl Irish twins with matching brown curls, freckles, and blue-green eyes, each a leader in his/her own right. Josh, with his father's twinkling brown eyes and witty tongue. And Abraham, a blonde, blue eyed six year old.
The merry band made their way up through the foothills, the children's eyes staring at the window, looking for the perfect one. They made their way through approved Manthei land, looking, hoping, dreaming. However, a Christmas tree could not be found. Daddy brown eyes crinkled with concern, and he finally announced a change of plan.
"We're going to have to look on the border of Clint Brady's land."
Clint Brady, the most notorious of the marijuana-growers in the area. The one that had greeted Daddy with a full arsenal during his first trip up the mountain, the one that Daddy had struck a tenuous peace with. The infamous one.
The children's eyes grew wide with excitement: they were going to hunt for a perfect tree on no-man's land.
Slowly, the red SUV made its way from safe land to dangerous land. And there it was. Nestled amid bushed, trees, hills, grass (and far away from illegal marijuana gardens) was a perfect tree: a Douglas Fir, It was tall, layered, green, and possessed that magical smell that is Christmastide. Quickly, Daddy and the children jumped out of their vehicle. Daddy and Ben cut down the tree, a perfect father-son logging team.
"Shh, be quiet."
"Don't laugh so loud."
"Move quickly."
The children's excitement mixed with the thrill of supposed danger, and never had a tree lashed to a car felt so rewarding. Slowly the SUV moved down the mountain, the perfect Christmas tree riding on top. Once they were off the mountain, Daddy smiled. Clint Brady had kept his family--the rightful owners of the land--from building upon their property for years. He had grown illegal substances on land that was not his. He had threatened, bullied, and broken the laws countless ways.He guarded the border of his land viciously, afraid of someone taking or confiscating his illegal treasure. But this Christmas, the border of his land had provided a clan of children the perfect Christmas tree.
It was a Christmas story different than the standard heart-warming one. There was no snow, no major crisis, just a band of children, a loving father, and the Christmas tree that had lived on the border the land of a selfish old man.
That night, the tree was decorated. It was a simple tree, decorated with worn decorations, hand-made ones, mismatched ones. It was surrounded by few presents and many people. The Christmas tree stood in the small living room for the rest of the season. That Christmas tree expedition was one of the children's favorite. It wasn't quite safe, wasn't cliche, and wasn't standard American family. It was also one of the last Christmases that Daddy's brown eyes twinkled, that his deep bass lead Christmas carols, that his vitality permeated the small house in the valley. But because one logger wanted his children to cut down a Christmas tree, that Christmas stays etched in the annals of memory.
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